


The Last Page

by MyRelapse



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Army, Bipolar Disorder, Coming Out, Domestic Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich, Endgame Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich, Eventual Romance, Explicit Sexual Content, Falling In Love, Fluff and Smut, Gallavich, Gun Violence, Heavy Angst, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, References to Drugs, Slow Burn, Trauma, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-19
Updated: 2020-09-22
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:54:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 21
Words: 68,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25997080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyRelapse/pseuds/MyRelapse
Summary: Mickey marries Svetlana, and Ian enlists in the army under his own name. They spend five years apart, denying their love for each other, but fate has different plans.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Kudos: 179





	1. He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not

**Author's Note:**

> Writing is cathartic for me, but I needed to distance myself from the negative aspects. I have disabled the comments for now, but please know that I appreciate your engagement with my writing very much, hopefully I will feel comfortable opening that up again soon. If not, please leave kudos if you enjoyed, and if my style or ideas aren't your cup of tea, I am excited for you to dive into one of the many other fantastic pieces on this platform - there are so many talented writers on here! 
> 
> I want to preface that I adore both Ian and Mickey, I don't have any bias against one or the other. Both characters make my heart smile and deserve all the love in the world.
> 
> I have close family members serving in the army, both past and present, so I will try my best to approach this with accuracy and respect at all times. This is my first attempt at a slow burn, it may not be the pace you prefer, but I will definitely learn and grow through the writing. Please be aware that there will be references to past traumas throughout this fic, some scenes may be graphic, violent, or triggering in nature. 
> 
> Thank you for being here. I truly hope you enjoy. I hope you are all staying healthy, and doing okay out there.

Tattered paperbacks had become his escape over the past five years. Curled up in a damp military tent, he held a book in his freckled hands, ruminating on the last page. The words dancing on the last slip of paper in the stack held miraculous and unrelenting strength. It booted him out of the imaginary world through the same door he entered, while enticing him to hold on tighter to the characters and plot. He knew what he was walking into every time, but what was Ian Gallagher if not a glutton for punishment. Mercilessly attached to another love story, he tossed the book back in the bin, replacing the novel with another. Finishing out his second tour of duty, fifteen months overseas, it came as no surprise that he had read many of the same books more than once.

Lip sent him a care package when he could afford to. His parcels included toiletries with the odd paperback jostling around among them. Fiona was more consistent. She sent her version of essentials such as sunscreen and beef jerky. Instead of literature to read, there was usually a fresh shirt, or handheld game. He didn’t complain; he appreciated the effort. Any reminder he had a family waiting back home was a good one.

He had not been back to the North Wallace house since the day he enlisted. After his first deployment, he considered going back, but it was too soon. His wounds were too fresh, and he knew returning would mean getting swept up in those broken blue eyes again, and he couldn’t. He had a job to do and going back would make it too difficult. He rode out his reintegration between tours in military appointed housing on base, fulfilling his active duty assignments far from the Southside.

It helped to envision his days as chapters in his own proverbial book. The part of his story where he signed his name on the dotted line, still a work in progress. His obligation to serve his country for eight years with the option to renew, so long as he remained free of any disqualifying mental health conditions, kept him from self-destruction. It kept him accountable, the practice of self-restraint at the forefront, a quality severely lacking in their family.

He let the pages write themselves. Unpredictable chapters where moments crawled by, while the years seemed to race against them simultaneously. His hard, camouflaged body huddled in the dirt of whatever shit hole country absorbed his bullet casings. He watched the events flit by in a detached haze, donning his combat uniform in blood, sweat, and tears, never feeling the urge to reflect on his tale.

A tale of heartbreak, no doubt about it. There were worse ways to run from a broken heart. He figured becoming a decorated soldier put some meaning to his inherited propensity to flee from his problems. An imperfect coping mechanism, but it far outweighed being a mistress to the love of his life. Sometimes he wondered what would have happened if he stayed, but the fear of regret prevented him from peeling back the curtain long enough to muse.

The months leading up to his eighteenth birthday were the closest he got to allowing heartache to control his life. He held his impulse to join the military as if it would help him beat the system somehow. Riding out those months patiently, he hunkered down with Monica, and left for basic training with her shining approval.

Ian teetered dangerously close to skulking his way to Boystown, shaking his ass for validation and survival. The idea became a tempting option, but a well-meaning recruiter had thwarted his trajectory. He counted his lucky stars every night. Ian spent his childhood observing the Gallagher spiral, but if anyone could outsmart love, it would be him. A comfortable lie he told himself, anyway.

Still, every so often he would scratch his heart on a sheet of paper, watching the armored helicopter take it from the barren wasteland, wondering if this time the boy who broke his heart would finally write back.

Ian craved a response like the bated breath in his lungs, but the one he wanted never came. He lost himself in dozens of orgasms, imagining that dark hair and those angry finger tattoos, while he plowed into a fellow soldier in his army platoon. 

He read romantic stories to soothe the sting of loneliness and fear as bombs dropped in the distance. He didn’t dream about kissing his lips. He didn’t close his eyes and see his face when he lay by himself, spiked with arousal. There was no immense jealousy at the thought of anyone else experiencing Mickey Milkovich the way he had. He didn’t need him.

He didn’t.

“Gallagher, you got mail!” Sgt. Singh announced, the desert sun hitting his white teeth like a flashbang. “Ready to put all this shit to rest?”

He held a hand up to shield the sun from his eyes, snatching the letter with unintended enthusiasm. “I guess I could do without eating meals out of a pouch for a while.”

“Come on bro, you must be lookin’ forward to gettin’ back to family. I can’t fuckin’ wait to see my wife. These pictures just ain’t cuttin’ it anymore.”

Ian laughed, tearing open the envelope. “Nah. If I could re-up now, I would.”

\----------

Marriage was a nightmare. Mickey’s relationship with Svetlana had been limited to the comings and goings of the rub and tug, and the little blonde Yevgeny. Until the rub and tug shut down beyond repair, and the Russian bitch decided she wanted to try her hand at the homemaker life. He had been willing to compromise to keep his homophobic dad in check, but he couldn’t fulfill his duties as a husband beyond subsidising them. It was not conducive to the happy wife, happy life mentality.

When Svetlana served him with divorce papers almost five years in, it shocked him she didn’t cite sexless marriage and piece of shit husband as a motive. How fast she packed up and left, leaving nothing more than mismatched socks, and their tear soaked child behind, stunned him more.

It was a devastating blow, more than he ever imagined. His life had been unpleasant, but he had developed a bond with the mother of his child over the years. A weak, fallacious one, but a bond all the same. The connection a person grows comfortable with over time, from living under the same roof. Yevgeny took her sudden departure the hardest, traumatized by the night she left, and the turmoil a four-year-old experiences being separated from his mother.

Mickey had come home from his shift at the Kash and Grab, to flashing lights and a sidewalk full of police. Svetlana took off before he got home, leaving the boy with Terry, who, timely, was arrested for running drugs. Mickey arrived just in time, but it didn’t stop CPS from knocking on his door, disguised as none other than Fiona fucking Gallagher. He couldn’t believe his eyes. They forced him to undergo parenting classes, and check-ins with the social worker on his case, which to his dismay, also was the redhead’s sister.

The humiliation in having her show up that night was enough, but she had to be their caseworker, and the most annoying one possible, at that.

He bit his tongue at each unannounced visit, welcoming her into the dilapidated house, answering her mind-numbing questions, and wondering how the hell his life ended up this way. The only upside to having a Gallagher critique his lifestyle was knowing they were cut from remarkably similar cloth.

“How’ve things been goin’ at work?” Fiona asked, smiling sweetly as Yevgeny handed her a toy.

“Fine. Same shit, different day,” he said, kicking his boots up on the coffee table. “How ‘bout you? Fill your quota of rippin’ kids from their homes today?”

She ignored his snide remark, pulling a colouring book and some crayons out of her bag. “I like what you've done with Yevgeny’s bedroom, much better than before.”

“It’s still a shithole, but whatever. Just trying to comply to get you fuckin’ monkey’s off my back. Svetlana ain’t exactly housewife of the year.”

“Have you put more consideration into finding a new place? Sometimes a fresh start makes all the difference,” Fiona said, leaning back on the musty couch. “You have done real good these past few months.”

“Is that what you call workin’ a dead-end job and dreaming about running away?”

“None of this was your fault, Mickey," she stated, her words as loaded as the gun in his bedside drawer. “You could have run away, and you didn’t. That is a big deal, especially in these parts.”

“Yeah well, what can I say? I’m the best of the worst in the Milkovich tribe. Nobody is linin’ up to give my ass a purple heart medal.”

Fiona chewed at her bottom lip, contemplating crossing a line. “A vacancy just opened up in my building. It’s nothin’ fancy, but it would be great for you guys.”

Mickey scoffed, shaking a cigarette out of the pack. “Can’t afford that shit. You’ve seen my paychecks.”

“I’d be willing to negotiate. Gimme a hand around the buildin’ and I’ll give you a discount you can’t refuse.” She suggested, grabbing the cigarette from his mouth. “No smokin’ in the apartment though.”

He sank further into the couch, watching his son fill page after page with scribbles of colour. She was right. He needed to get them out of this troubled house. It haunted the walls with violent memories, and he hated the idea that Terry would bust down the door dragging his career criminality and hatred with him.

“I’ll think about it—but hey, can Debbie look after Yev again on Saturday? Linda gave me an extra shift. Something to do with a business convention for the mini-mart owning fucks of America.”

“Call her, I’m sure she’d love to help—oh, we’re having a bit of a get together though. Ian’s comin’ home.”

A hot chill blanketed his body. Ian’s coming home. It had been a million years since he heard that name out loud. He thought about buying a calendar just to mark how many days he went on surviving without a heart. Fortunately, he had the presence of mind to remember his position in the closet, preventing him from admitting how badly that redhead broke him.

“How is G.I. Joe anyway?” He asked, wincing as his throat abandoned him, his voice nothing but a desperate croak.

“I don’t really know, honestly. He writes sometimes, but he holds his cards close. Lip says he’s mostly the same, more militant maybe.”

Go figure. Five years and not a single letter made its way to his door.

“Good for him. We done here?” Mickey blurted, gathering up the art supplies.

“Yeah, we’re done for today," she nodded, wishing she knew how to approach his sexuality without obliterating her career. After Lip gave her the heads up about Ian’s involvement with Mickey, she realized it had been an easier road for Ian. She could only imagine the difficulty of coming out to the Milkovich clan. “Keep it. I brought that stuff for you guys.”

Yevgeny’s face lit up, scurrying over to squeeze Fiona’s legs in gratitude.

\----------

After he made it to ninety-two, Iggy lost count of how many letters he pulled out of the trash. It was a miracle he could even count that high, anyway. Not always around to keep up with Terry’s antics, he was sure there were many letters that went without rescue, but he tried.

Iggy kept them in a plastic bag under his bed, waiting for a safe time to deliver them. Between Mickey’s hovering wife, and their raging homophobe of a father, timing was never right. He worried about the repercussions of the contents. Also, what might happen to his sibling if Terry caught him pining over them.

He wanted to leave them with Mandy, but she took off so fast it left no time to say goodbye, never mind unload a bag of history on her lap. Now he just worried they would derail him from his life with Yevgeny. That little boy was the only hope he had at a clean life.

Svetlana confessed her sins one night over a bottle of tequila and an eighth of weed, using her sob story as a desperate come-on. Any other time he would have jumped at the opportunity—crazy or not, she was hot as hell. But the fact that she raped his brother into having a kid, at the request of their pig father, made his skin crawl. Even he wouldn’t stoop that low. It gave him a deeper appreciation for his brother, and the sacrifices he was making just to keep everyone alive.

He had no issues with Mickey being gay. They grew up in a home where fag bashing qualified for a national holiday, but that didn’t reflect his feelings. His feelings changed nothing under their roof, unfortunately, especially if their dad was around. He understood why his brother kept it under wraps. After the ginger twink ran off, he hadn’t caught his brother so much as glance at another dude.

Watching him try to play a part in a life he didn’t belong in, was straight up painful. He wanted his brother to find happiness, but in the shit ol’ ghetto, that was a stretch.

“Ay man, how’d your CPS shit go today?”

Mickey’s humorless chuckle weighed on Iggy. “Got to keep my kid, that means something right?”

“Still can’t believe that bitch fucked off on ya. Can’t make a ho a housewife,” Iggy snorted, slumping beside his brother at the kitchen table. “How much longer you gotta do this appointment shit for?”

“Until they tell me I’m not a scumbag anymore, I guess.”

“You ain’t a scumbag, brother. I don’t get why you gotta do this shit, when Svet was the one who ran out. Seems backwards.”

Mickey shrugged, taking a long pull from his cigarette. “Who cares, man? We’re all fucked, anyway.”

“This mean I can’t pull the coke out yet?” The older brother joked, patting Mickey on the shoulder.

“Do whatever you want, man. Me and the kid are moving out. Guess it is time to let go of old shit.”

\----------

It was a gorgeous spring day, and Ian admired American soil more than he expected. Being granted two week’s vacation upon his return was even better. He made the last minute decision to indulge his siblings in a welcome home party, clinging to his commitment to return to base.

Venturing the streets of Canaryville was significantly more daunting than active war zones in his experience. He was a steadfast, spit shined soldier, and yet all the survival training in the world couldn’t eliminate the butterflies in his stomach. He was nervous to see his family, and he missed them more than he expected, but it was so much more than that.

Ian tugged at the cuffs of his Class A dress jacket, the tips of his fingers brushing across the regalia on his chest, hoping he had ironed out the creases enough to pass as a respectable soldier. His family could never relate to the discipline it took to serve, but he was ready to wear his achievements proudly, hiding behind them or not.

The army taught him more in the years he had served so far than anything learned outside of it, but there was still so much about life he didn’t know. He learned bits and pieces through letters and rare phone calls, but he missed out on entire phases of his sibling’s lives, and the world around him. He was eager to find something familiar, something tangible to ground him before walking up those rickety stairs again.

Parking beside the Kash and Grab, the memories came flooding back. His twisted relationship with the owner being overshadowed entirely by the swell he felt in his heart at the nostalgia of falling for a boy in the confines of those walls. It was easy to ignore when he was overseas, but even the scent in the air took him back to that place.

He opened the door, a familiar chime welcoming him in. The store looked exactly as he left it; subtle changes only recognizable to someone who spent many hours stocking the shelves and mopping the floors.

“Hello?” Ian called out, glancing around for whatever protégé took over manning the counter. “I’m gonna steal all the chocolate bars, since there’s nobody watching, anyway!”

“Uncle Sam know his soldiers are crooks?”

His skin caught fire at the husky voice behind him. Ian stood at attention, the last five years of muscle memory taking control. Chin up, chest out, shoulders back, stomach in. That voice. That smell. Those eyes. He couldn’t breathe, but he was alive for the first time in years. The boy, his boy, not a boy at all anymore.

His breath hitched, drifting quietly from his lips.

“ _Mickey._ ”


	2. Rome Wasn't Built in a Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What do all Southside siblings have in common? Loyalty.

Old habits die hard, and seeing Ian Gallagher in the flesh after five years was like taking a long drag from a cigarette after six months of going cold turkey. The tips of Mickey’s fingers tingled ruthlessly. Not knowing how to handle himself, he resorted to stuffing his hands in his pockets. The redhead was a new man. Mickey tried to keep his eyes above board, but he was a vision too beautiful to ignore. His once boyish face now sculpted to perfection, his chiseled jaw and crimson cheeks against such pale, freckled skin restricting his breath.

Ian stood before him, tree trunk legs made entirely of muscle, his army issued hair cut cropped to perfection around his blushing ears, and he looked powerful. Confident. Tall. Mickey learned his lesson the hard way, still tempted to reach out to taste those lips like a spoonful of vanilla custard despite it.

Instead, he froze. Ian still had that effect on him. He couldn’t believe that he was still so irrevocably tangled up in those stupid eyes. Mickey always thought Ian took his heart with him when he left, and standing right in front of him, dressed in his best, was his living, breathing, six foot heart, and he wanted to punch him right in the dick.

Sweat prickled on the ridge of his top lip, but his limbs were suddenly so numb, he had to let it drip. He silently hoped Ian missed the bodily mishap, but those emerald eyes drifted lazily to the rivulet grazing his nervous face, and it made him high. The lights were suddenly brighter, the temperature in the store seeming to rise against his will. He waited for the soldier to speak, willing himself to calm the electric buzz radiating from the surface of his skin.

“How’ve you been?”

Mickey scoffed. “How’ve I fuckin’ been? Oh, y’know just livin’ my best life ringing up cans of soup, and granola bars for the scum of the Southside.”

Ian’s eyes drifted across his body, landing on the wedding band fixed snugly on his left hand, and he couldn’t prepare for how his body reacted. Ian didn’t deserve an explanation, but the urge to give one was intense. He meant to take it off after Svetlana left. He didn’t know why he kept it. He wanted Ian to understand. Somehow, the words just didn’t make it past his teeth.

“Still married, huh? Svetlana?”

His formidable resolve began to wilt. “What’s it to you?”

There was a beat of silence, puppy eyes drinking him in like a glass of water on a summer’s day. He might have been reading him wrong, but those eyes almost looked sad, downcast as he formulated his next thought.

“You look good.”

The words left Ian’s mouth and went straight to Mickey’s libido. It was dangerous. Too dangerous.

“Look man, grab whatever shit you need and go. I got work to do.”

Ian nodded slowly, the small grin on his face disappearing into tight lips. “You’re mad at me.”

“I would have to give a shit about you, to be mad at you,” he snapped, feeling his stomach twist at the painful wince on the redheads’ face. “I ain’t mad.”

He watched the soldier’s eyes darken, like they used to before a punch would split the air between them. He wished the redhead would take a swing. Ian marched out the door like a good sergeant should, much to Mickey’s surprise. It would have been a dignified exit, had he not slammed the door angrily against a shelf of chewing gum, knocking a dozen containers to the floor.

Palms pressed against his eyes, he knelt to clean up the mess. Fuck.

\----------

Ian’s breezy mood tanked with a surge of anger, and he knew his nerves needed to take a minute before he reached the Gallagher doorstep. The army taught him well, but lately he had been on edge. Gone were the days when he allowed his moods to dictate his experiences thanks to years of training and discipline, but toward the end of his tour he noticed himself becoming unusually irritable. He wrote it off as something to do with returning home, and the confused emotions involved with that transition. It didn’t help that his first encounter with his past had been his most pivotal one. Oh, well. If Mickey wanted to act like an errant child, fine. No sweat off his back. He was only home for two weeks, anyway.

He clenched his jaw as he replayed Mickey’s words in his head, regardless of his determination to ignore them completely. _I’d have to actually give a shit about you_. Yeah, right. He had done some idiotic stuff in his lifetime, but _a complete moron_ didn’t grace his resumé. He could see those blue eyes undressing him piece by piece. Years could not erase the way those pupils dilated in his presence. Fuck him and the bullshit he rode in on. Ian didn’t expect a warm welcoming, adorned with rainbows and peppered kisses, but did he have to be such a jerk? 

His blood boiled, and he was running late, which only made it worse. Time slipped away from him as he wallowed in his childhood crush, anxiety climbing through the cracks where his punctuality had been. He was never late to anything. It had been ingrained in his bones over the years, but somehow his first day back had already chipped away at his temperament. He could not allow himself to slip. He was army strong, and a fortnight in Chicago couldn’t wipe that away.

Ian made it to the gate before a group of familiar faces barreled toward him, their bright eyes and radiant smiles bringing peace to his earlier anguish. They ran their hands over his service uniform, giggling about how official he looked, ruffling his pristine hair until he fit right in.

The younger ones had changed the most, a pang of remorse knowing that he missed out on those milestones. Fiona and Lip had not changed a bit, and laughter bellowed from his chest at the predictable squeal from Kev and V. Familiarity shifted when his gaze fell on a little blonde boy with piercing blue eyes. Nobody told him about a recent addition to the Gallagher family.

“Who’s this?” Ian asked, kneeling to look at the nervous boy, hiding his face in Fiona’s cardigan.

“This is Yevgeny,” Debbie chimed, running a comforting hand along the mystery child’s back. “He’s a little shy, but he’ll warm up to you. He’s Mickey’s boy—you remember him, right? Mandy’s brother.”

“Thought the army wiped tardiness outta your repertoire. You’re late, fucker,” Lip interrupted, breaking up the tension before it reached the brink. “Let’s stop crowding the kid and grab some fucking grub. Welcome home, man. We missed ya.”

\----------

Their childhood home had undergone some upgrades, Ian being pleasantly surprised, and slightly covetous. Gone were the days of threadbare couches and thrift store lamps, it made the place so much lighter. His family had pulled together, patching up the walls and putting some TLC into the otherwise slapdash décor. He was proud of them, but the progression served as a reminder of what he missed out on.

He got the gist of their lives through their letters, but he enjoyed hearing them yammer away, filling in the blanks. Fiona spent four years fighting her way to a bachelor’s degree in social work, while Lip struggled through college, battling alcoholism along the way. Debbie graduated from high school early, eager to follow in her big brother’s footsteps, Carl got into some trouble before a relationship set him on a better path, hellbent on making the cut to West Point Military Academy, and Liam outshone Lip’s genius by the day. Frank still a gong show as usual, nothing new there, and it didn’t seem so harrowing knowing his siblings were all doing relatively well despite him. Kev and V owned the Alibi, and business was better than ever. A benefit to the neighborhood being revitalized brick by brick.

He was proud of their accomplishments. It brought him relief that they weren’t struggling the same way they used to, though he couldn’t help but feel like they didn’t need him anymore. Life had improved since he left. Or maybe, he mused to himself, because of it.

“What’s it like being over there?” Carl quizzed, drilling his older brother for details. “Can’t fucking wait to get my hands dirty.”

Ian chuckled, tipping his head back, a swig of cold beer coating his throat. “Your hands’ll be plenty dirty, believe me. So will the rest of your body. It’s rewarding work, but I definitely don’t miss being damp and filthy all the time.”

“Damp?” V cringed, plonking down at the edge of the coffee table.

“Damp,” he repeated, slapping Carl on his back enthusiastically. “Trudging through dirt as hot as the devil’s asshole, covered head to toe in gear, you get used to it—but it’s pretty gross.”

“I’m ready for it, man,” Carl said, squaring his shoulders.

“You got the best mentor around,” Kev boasted, giving the redhead a playful shove. “We’re glad to have you back, dude. Come by the bar, drinks on us.”

“Appreciate that, man. I’m not back, though. Just visiting.”

Fiona wiped her hands against her apron, staring at their stainless steel oven, muffled conversations from the living room setting a deep ache in her chest. Just visiting.

She tried to be strong for their family, but it had not been a cakewalk by any means. Balancing holding down the fort and keeping her head on straight, while spending many late nights praying to a God she didn’t believe in that Ian would come home alive, was taking its toll. She kept their conversations positive, leaving out any heavy details in their letters, too afraid to distract him from the danger she could only imagine surrounded him. She missed him and wanted him home for good. They all did.

“Foods ready guys, come eat,” Fiona said, sliding the last of the dishes on the dining room table. “Yev—you’re gonna sit beside me, okay sweetface?”

The little boy settled in beside his sister, as he examined his features, comparing them to a face he’d spent so many years loving. There was no denying the relation. He was a spitting image of his father, blonde hair aside. He wanted to learn everything about the boy, that shy little face making him yearn for Mickey, and what could have been.

“So—do you babysit the neighborhood kids a lot? You used to be awesome with them," Ian asked, hoping to keep his interrogation under the radar.

Gallagher eyes darted all around, Debbie’s answer intriguingly vague. “I go where I’m needed.”

“Did you tell him about the welding thing?” Fiona asked, her abrupt change in subject making Ian burn with curiosity.

“Oh yeah! I’m thinking about getting into welding before diving into college. Good money, and the courses are hands on—I don’t wanna get stuck with a ton of student debt.”

“I can help you with school, Debs,” Ian offered, glancing over at the curious blue eyes studying him from across the table. “You guys have been getting the money I sent, right?”

Fiona nodded, leaning over to cut Yevgeny’s chicken into bite-size pieces. “Our squirrel fund has never been bigger—even helped us clean the place up a bit. You should start savin’ it for yourself, Ian. We’re doing okay now.”

“No problem, Fi. I don’t have time to spend it, anyway.”

Ian sending money to his family had been a no brainer. It helped ease his guilt, too. Everything aside from his first paycheck had gone directly home, except for what he needed to live on base between deployments, and he had not thought twice about it. Pay was good, but he wasn’t in it for financial security, at least not in the beginning.

“You should get one of those Range Rovers,” Kev suggested, a toothy grin decorating his inebriated face. “Always wanted to ride around in one of those.”

Lip chortled, shaking his head at Kev’s Southside grandeur. “That shit would get stolen so fast.”

“The neighborhoods cleaning up though, right?” Ian asked, watching Debbie tap her fingers against her phone screen in rapid succession, his mind wandering to places it ought not wander, desperate to know who she was texting.

“Don’t go putting all your eggs in that basket, still a fuckin’ dump,” Lip said vehemently. “Cops on every block.”

“They took my grandpa and my mama,” Yevgeny blurted, his tiny voice barely breaching a whisper. “The lights hurted my eyes and spinned around and around.”

“Svetlana got arrested?” Ian asked, noticing a sudden lack of eye contact from his siblings.

“Hey Yevy—wanna come jump on the trampoline?” Liam asked, pushing his half-eaten plate of dinner to the side. “I learned a new game at school, it’s fun!”

The group gave the boys sidelong glances as they sauntered out the back door, Ian waiting for their footsteps to patter away from the house before launching his investigation.

“Can someone please tell me what the fuck is going on?”

\----------

The truth about Svetlana was much worse, and bile crept up the base of his throat at the knowledge. Fiona was hesitant to share any details beyond what the loudmouths of the neighborhood already knew, but that was more than enough to burn him up from the inside, anyway. They were all awfully familiar with a parent walking out on them, but that didn’t change how outraged and horrible it made him feel. If his relationship with Mickey hadn’t been obvious before, their past was shaking to the surface.

“How did you guys get involved, then?”

Fiona paced the kitchen, twisting the cap off her beer bottle. “I actually can’t tell you that. Confidential information.”

“Confidential? Like a work thing? Wait—is Yevgeny one of your cases?”

One by one, the group thinned, disappearing into the backyard, leaving Fiona and Debbie to the uncomfortable task of answering the unrelenting redhead.

“Ian, I really can’t say. I could lose my job.”

“I guess that answers my question. So is Mickey raising him alone or—?”

Fiona held up her hand, stopping him in his tracks. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t make this your project, okay?”

Adrenaline coursed through his body. “Project? What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means you left, okay? You did, and then Svetlana did, and it has taken us a long time to build trust with Mickey and his son. Sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong is detrimental to their well-being. I know you guys have history, but he’s been through enough,” Fiona said, taking a deep breath and bracing herself against the counter. “They need stability.”

“Do you even know why I left?”

“No Ian. I don’t know why you left. What I know is that you left. We’re all real proud of what you’ve accomplished, but you can’t come around and expect the world to catch you up. Life went on without you, some of us struggled, including Mickey.”

Regret hung from her words as soon as she spoke them, wishing she had taken the calmer approach she’d been practicing since the days leading up to their first dinner back together. Being upset was justified, but as much as he didn’t understand their struggle, they didn’t understand his either. Ian didn’t just disappear into the abyss like Monica. He spent years battling his demons in war-ridden countries, and he deserved more patience than she had given him.

Before she had the chance to apologize, Ian stormed through the house and out the front door, followed by the faint screech of tires on pavement.

Debbie hugged her sister tight. “Don’t worry Fiona, he’ll be back.”

\----------

Ian parked across the street from the Milkovich house, chain-smoking as he reminisced. Birds chirped as the sun kissed the overgrown lawn, and it was otherworldly. The decaying property reminded him of a time when spending five minutes away from the delinquent was too much to handle. Suddenly he couldn’t comprehend how he had stayed away from him for five years. He used to be the one going to bat for Mickey and defending his honor to everyone who doubted his integrity. Now his family was protecting Mickey from him, and it pissed him off.

Smoke billowed from his nose as he remembered those nights at the ballpark, chemicals stinging his lungs and helping him float along those memories. Fiona explaining that Mickey needed someone stable, as if he was incompetent for the position, irked him. He was on active duty now, but he would step down. He didn’t want to lose Mickey to someone else. Ian was plenty capable. He could adapt.

He shook his head at the rapid stream of impulsive thoughts. It was way too soon for those.

A hoarse voice spooked him from his daydream. “He ain’t home.”

Time had been good to Mickey, but the courtesy didn’t extend to his sibling. A darkness hung under his eyes that only a life of crime and substance use could achieve.

“Iggy—hey. Yeah, I know. I saw him at the store.”

The older Milkovich grunted, leaning against the driver’s door. “That make you a stalker, or are you practicin’ your covert ops shit?”

“Guess I just wanted to come by, see the old stomping grounds. Been a while.”

His excuse was ten shades of lame, obvious that it registered the same on Iggy’s end.

“You stickin’ around this time, or does the army got you on a time release tablet of regular civilian life?”

“What?”

“Are you slummin’ it for shits and gigs, or are you here for good?” Iggy asked, an unforgiving expression creasing on his forehead. “‘Cause if you ain’t here for good, you better be on your merry way.”

“That a threat?”

“A warnin’," Iggy growled, lighting the cigarette dangling from his cracked lips. “Life ain’t been kind around these parts. Mick don’t need you comin’ around complicatin’ shit.”

“Why does everyone think I’m some fucking missile set to destroy Mickey’s life? Jesus. I’m not the only one who made mistakes here.”

Iggy took a drag of his smoke, chewing on the words, and mulling them over. “Maybe not. But you were the one who made ‘em impossible to fix by fuckin’ off to bumfuckistan for a thousand years.”

Ian’s knuckles grew white against the steering wheel. “I wrote him. He didn’t write back. What the fuck was I supposed to do?”

“Look, I ain’t a life therapist or some shit. I get wantin’ to run when shit hits the fan. But he needed you, man—he needed you, and you took off. You’re gonna have to do a whole lotta ass kissin’ to make up for it.” He wiped a fleck of mud from the mirror. “Good thing that kinda shit is right up your alley, eh?”

Iggy jogged across the street with a grin, disappearing into the run-down house. Just as he was about to pull away from the curb, the Milkovich sibling reappeared, holding a bag. He sat down on the steps, waving the redhead over. Ian considered leaving, but Iggy had never been one to make a genuine effort for anybody, so it felt like a worthwhile chance to take.

“These are my letters," Ian said, as he dropped the bag on his lap with a thud.

“We don’t give medals around here for stating the obvious—sorry,” Iggy grumbled, snuffing out his cigarette on broken cement.

He traced a finger over the curling edges of a stamp. “He never read them?”

“Never saw ’em. Anything that showed up here with your name on it, Dad tossed out.”

Tears burned his eyes. Terry Milkovich was the worst. The things he would do in a room alone with that man were indescribable.

“Why are you telling me this?”

Iggy fell silent for a few minutes, peeling a long splinter off the railing beside him and bending it with his fingers.

“He calls out for you in his sleep sometimes. Figure you outta mean somethin’ to him still.”

The shade from the porch chilled his bones, the magnitude of the situation engulfing his mind. His mission had changed, and life as he knew it was losing its purpose. He loved the camaraderie of being in the army, and everything it molded him to be. But if there was one thing he learned from just a few scant hours in Illinois, it was that he cared for Mickey Milkovich more. All the romance novels in the eastern hemisphere couldn’t equip him with the tools he needed to manage the flood of desperation he suddenly felt.

“I don’t know what to do,” Ian confessed, running the pad of his thumb over the first letter he ever wrote. “So much has changed. I’m not who I used to be. What if he doesn’t want me anymore?”

“Gotta quit runnin’ if you wanna find out,” Iggy stated, giving the soldier’s shoulder a hard shake. “Guess I don’t gotta remind you I’ll fuck you up if you hurt him.”

Ian smiled to himself, turning another letter over in his hands. “Who said I was running?”

“Oh, come on. Joinin’ the fuckin’ army ‘cause your teenage love life got dark and twisty? That’s the kinda shit people make movies about, man. You ran from your problems like a little bitch.”

“I joined the army to serve my country,” He retorted, glaring at the arrogant Milkovich brother. “I always wanted to be an officer, long before I met Mick.”

“All good and noble,” Iggy snorted, shuffling to his feet, “but what’s the army done for you besides puttin’ miles between you and the people you care about?”

“Lots of shit," he said, shoving faded letters back into the bag, attempting to hand them back to Iggy.

“Those ain’t mine. Your turn to carry that baggage.”

Ian chewed the inside of his lip for a few beats, soft shadows beginning to shift around the trees on the sidewalk. “Are you gonna tell him I wrote to him?”

“Nah,” Iggy shrugged, turning to head inside the house. “That’s all you, Cap’n.”

The door creaked shut behind Ian, leaving him to his thoughts, and a surprising bout of Milkovich wisdom.


	3. Excuse Me, Pardon Me, Coming Through

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes handsome soldiers are all left feet. Sometimes their equally handsome ex-boyfriends are there to catch them.

Ian woke up at zero five hundred hours on the dot. Every day, no excuses. His morning began by making his bed with sheets taut enough to bounce a quarter off, followed by a shit and shave. Regimented routines transformed him into a well-rounded soldier, and he couldn’t afford to lose momentum over the course of his brief vacation, despite the orchestra of loud, protesting grumbles drifting down the hallway from his siblings. Carl, being eager to join the military, followed him intently as the redhead taught him how to make his bed to military inspection standards, giving him tips on how to keep the closest, cleanest shave in the least amount of time. Ian didn’t consider himself to be grandiose, but the honor to serve his country motivated him to carry the status well. A sense of pride bloomed watching his younger brother follow in his footsteps, and it was a lie if he said the respect didn’t help supply his need for a little validation.

Ian normally went on a run before breakfast, but his energy hadn’t been up to par in recent months. He noticed the strange symptom one morning while on the tail end of deployment. He couldn’t crawl out of bed. His commanding officer gave him the day off, sending a medic to check on him while his unit went to work. Undeniably the most frustrating day of his tour, because not only did they find nothing wrong with him, the medic suggested he was simply burnt out. Ian Gallagher did not get burnt out. He fired shots from a Humvee in the dead of summer, cooped up in sweltering heat with his squad for days on end, his body riddled with a bacterial infection. He loaded his M16 in the dark after a flashbang shredded his ear drums at 180 decibels, temporarily blinding him. There were days he went too long without water, and longer without food, never sacrificing his efficiency on the front lines. Burn out was unfathomable. He told himself it must have been some health issue that his immune system took care of on its own, pushing himself harder the next day to make up for it.

The only thing tempting him to go for his run was the prospect that he might see Mickey before he left for work. Fiona had been tight-lipped about the details of Mickey’s life, but he coaxed a shift schedule out of her after crushing a case of beer together during their parade of apologies to each other. He wouldn’t make his intentions obvious, but if he banged out his cardio on the same street his ex boyfriend lived on, whatever. He was dragging his feet, though, and he owed his family a hot breakfast for waking them up so early.

Banana pancakes and sizzling bacon wafted through the Gallagher house, Carl operating the griddle, while Ian made a snap decision to run out for orange juice.

Fiona stopped him as he reached the door, twisting her hair into a bun with a yawn. “Where ya goin’?”

“Makin’ a run to the Kash and Grab.” He said, feigning oblivion, and reaching for his old winter jacket.

“You sure this is a good idea?”

“I’m picking up juice Fi, nothin’ to read into.”

She jingled her car keys between them. “I’ll go. How ‘bout you help Carl in the kitchen before he burns everything down?”

“Fiona—”

“Okay, fine.” She huffed, patting him softly on the cheek. “Juice and come right back.”

Ian rolled his eyes at her attempt to micromanage. He was a fully capable adult who could run out for last-minute breakfast supplies without falling hopelessly for his ex-lover, who had the most gorgeous face of any man. No big deal. His trip didn’t involve Mickey, anyway.

\----------

Ian was so excited for orange juice, that he all but careened through the door, scaring Mickey half to death. His passionate entry also frightened an elderly customer out of her tea, the hot beverage exploding all over the floor between her and the till. The act earned him an irritated glare from Mickey, but that was better than nothing, and he would take it to the bank.

“Stealing chocolate bars, and givin’ old lady’s heart attacks,” He muttered, reaching for the grimy mop behind the counter. “That the kinda leadership you take to the army?”

Ian apologized profusely to the startled senior, making sure she didn’t suffer any burns. He refilled her tea and escorted her safely outside, before offering his help in the beverage bombing cleanup. He reached for the mop, almost swallowing his tongue when their fingers brushed. He racked his brain, looking for something to say that might suppress his thrill. “I uh—think that’s the same mop we used when I worked here.”

“Yeah well, poor Linda can’t afford to replace it when patrons go bonkers and send an old lady lawsuit flying through her store.”

The redhead barked out a laugh as Mickey sauntered to the back. He may have been overly optimistic, but it seemed like Mickey was escaping the scene of the crime to hide the grin threatening to split his face.

“Cool that you’re workin’ here.” Ian blurted, cringing internally at how ridiculous he sounded out loud.

“ _Cool_ , eh? Gee, thanks for the stamp of approval Cap’n Gallagher.”

Mickey cracked open a soda, guzzling it down like he was auditioning for a beverage commercial, and the visual made Ian weak. He couldn’t help but tilt his head at that steadily bobbing Adam’s apple, the same one he used to suck kisses against in the dark.

“ _Sergeant_ Gallagher.” Ian corrected, a pulse of heat simmering at the pit of his stomach as his assertive tone reignited.

Mickey’s brow quirked, his tongue drifting mischievously to the corner of his mouth. “Shit, my bad. So, what can we civilians at the Kash and Grab do for your royal highness?”

Ian almost forgot his breakfast assignment. “Ran outta OJ.”

“Tough luck, champ. We’re all out.”

“Check the back.”

“Nothin’ in the back.” Mickey stated, leaning across the counter. “I’m guessin’ since you’re so out of breath, that ain’t the best news. Gotta huff it to the next place.”

He was out of breath, and as much as he wanted to blame it on lust, his body was waning. Driving to another corner store was out of the question, especially if it meant depending on his rapidly declining energy.

Ian shrugged noncommittally. “No biggie. Banana pancakes kinda clash with orange juice, anyway.”

They stood in silence for a few beats, fidgeting awkwardly and looking at everything but each other. Ian preserved his brittle ego, reaching for the door. Much to the surprise of both men, Mickey stopped him.

“Eh, Gallagher.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m not.”

“Not what?”

“Married. You, uh—you asked the other day. I was, but I’m not anymore.”

The redhead let out a fragmented breath, biting back the urge to bridge the gap between them, his appetite for tasting those lips and drinking in his scent nearing the precipice.

“I’m not either.”

Mickey smirked, leaning back in his chair. “Didn’t find _the one_ while you were blowin’ shit up in the middle east?”

“Not possible.”

“Why’s that?”

Ian had the ability to dismantle and rebuild an assault rifle in mud up to his knees faster than he could fashion an answer to that question. He felt compelled to let his deepest sentiments spill out in buckets, which had been a tried-and-accurate indicator over the years, that he should do the opposite, especially with Mickey.

“Sorry about the tea. See you around, Mick.”

\----------

When he returned without breakfast provisions, he ignored the condemnatory gaze from Fiona, moving straight to cramming a scalding hot pancake in his mouth. He needed to fuel his hungry body in more ways than one. Ridiculous, really, how stupid that man could make him. He didn’t fumble over his words anymore. He was a goddamn pressed and polished military warrior.

“No dice with the OJ?” Lip asked, nudging his redheaded brother suggestively.

“Outta stock nothin’ in the back.” Ian said through a mouthful of fluffy banana cakes.

Carl handed him a plate with a snicker. “Nothing in the back _mission failed_.”

“You guys are so gross, can we save this riveting conversation for after we eat, please?” Fiona griped, cringing around her fork. “What’re your plans today, Ian? Wanna check out a museum or somethin’?”

“Can’t. Twelve more days to convince Mick that I’m not a total piece of shit.”

Lip and Fiona let out a collective breath, his sister being the first to respond. “Not a good idea, kid.”

“Why? ’Cause I’m not good enough?” Ian scoffed, dumping an unholy amount of syrup on his mountain of cakes. “He gets to decide that for himself, not you.”

“It has nothin’ to do with good enough.” She tapped her fingers on the table, collecting her thoughts. “He’s goin’ through some changes in his life right now.”

“And?”

“And, you’re not. You know what your path is. You leave for base at the end of your vacation, and you go back to work.”

Ian shook his head, chasing his food with a cold swig of coffee. “That depends on what happens over the next couple weeks.”

“I mean, does it?” Lip asked, his interjection laced with concern. “You can’t exactly call up the army and quit ‘cause you wanna play house with your high school sweetheart. What does that even look like?”

“It looks like you minding your own business.”

Fiona placed her hand on top of his, trying to calm the beast. “He’s right, Ian. What does it look like for you? ‘Cause I know what it would be like for Mickey, and it ain’t good.”

“What are you sayin’? He wouldn’t wait for me to get my shit sorted out?”

“I’m sayin’ maybe it’s not fair for you to expect him to.” She explained, lacing her fingers between his. “Twelve days isn’t enough time to do this the right way. He hasn’t even come out yet, and he is tryin’ to learn how to take care of a kid on his own. This isn’t a romcom, he’s not standin’ in the airport beggin’ you not to go. You both have a lot at stake.”

Ian shot out of his chair, brushing crumbs from his lap. “I’m going for a run.”

“Let’s talk about this, man.” Lip said, patting the seat next to him. “Don’t run off.”

“Run off?” Ian laughed humorlessly. “I spend half a decade fighting for this country and you treat me like I’m some rebellious juvenile.”

“Ian, that’s not—”

“Stop, okay? I’m not a kid anymore. I’ve seen more in my adult life than any of you combined. Maybe you’re right, and there’s not enough time—maybe I am too late.” He grabbed the chest of his shirt, as his heart knocked fervently against his palm. “But I can’t go the rest of my life wondering what woulda happened if I tried to fix it.”

They nodded hesitantly, their weary glances giving him just enough gumption to prove them all wrong. Maybe time was not on his side, but he spent years elbow to elbow with some most interesting, good-looking men, and months on end in countries with civilians throwing themselves at him, desperate to please him. None of them held a candle to the way Mickey Milkovich made him feel by existing in the same room, and he was certain nobody ever could. Those boots were too big to fill, those memories too important. Mickey brought him to life without breathing a single word, and that had to count for something.

Ian bolted through the front door, bee-lining straight into none other than Mickey himself, the collision knocking them ass over teakettle down the wooden steps.

“Fuck, Gallagher.” He wheezed, winded from the kamikaze redhead still sprawled out on top of him. “What’s with you and tearin’ through doors?”

“I’m sorry—I didn’t see—I wasn’t lookin’ where I was goin’.”

Mickey’s teeth raked over his bottom lip, his dark eyelashes flitting up to study the freckles on his face. Ian wondered if they were as soft as they looked, like a coat made of mink, or the surface of a rose petal. His thoughts were quickly interrupted.

“You’re bleeding, man.” Mickey murmured, bringing attention to the warm trickle seeping into the gravel under his forearm.

Ian glanced down at the injury, but he couldn’t feel it. He didn’t care. Mickey’s mouth mere inches from his, the man smelled incredible, _so incredible_. He might have been a heavy bag of muscle, and Mickey was the smaller man, but he didn’t wriggle away. He waited for a push against his chest, or a rough shove, but it never came. Mickey lay beneath him, chest heaving, moistening his lips with his tongue out of instinct.

“Oh my god, what happened?” Debbie shrieked, calling for Fiona before reaching down to help them up. “Your arm!”

Ian scrambled to his feet like a newborn fawn, a steady stream now splashing in a small puddle of blood between them. “I’m fine, Debs—I tripped.”

“Jesus, Ian.” Fiona gasped, giving her brother a once over before hauling ass back inside, in search of the nearest med kit in the house.

“You okay, man? You’re lookin’ a little green.” Mickey asked, brows furrowing at the unstable redhead. “The fucks got you so wound up?”

He wanted to offer a quirky remark, but his head got fuzzy, and the ground lurched under his feet. Mickey caught him before he hit the pavement, bracing him by his elbows. The last thing he remembered before it all went dark, was his blood slipping through Mickey’s fingers.

\----------

He woke up on the couch, to a very anxious Liam, kneeling beside him with a mental list of rapid-fire questions. Once his sibling felt confident that he still had a grasp on current events, he scurried off to find Lip.

Ian blinked away the blur in his eyes, holding up his arm to inspect the bandage. It would do just fine. He glanced at his watch, chuckling at the likelihood of his first ever fainting episode. His exposure to gruesome injuries and blood was enough to last a lifetime, never inciting so much as a flinch. Suddenly the sight of his own blood was too much? No way. It must have been the meals he’d inadvertently skipped since coming back. The more he thought about it, the more he realized how much his mind had been racing since returning from deployment. Too bad his body couldn’t keep up with it.

“How was your nap, shithead?” Lip teased, slumping down on the arm of the couch. “You’re really dedicated to making an impression. Scared Mickey pretty good.”

He bolted up off the couch, his head weighted and dizzy. “Scared him away?”

“Nah, just freaked him out a bit, I think. He’s been texting Debbie nonstop waiting for an update.”

Ian snorted. “An update? I got queasy and passed out—there’s the update.”

“Since when have you had a weak stomach?” Lip asked, motioning for him to move over on the couch. “You feelin’ okay?”

“I’m all good, brother. Where’s Mickey, did I hurt him?”

“He’s fine, had to go back to work. He was just droppin’ by with some juice before your crazy ass knocked his dick in the dirt.” Lip chuckled, reaching for his phone. “Smooth move.”

“Shut up.” Ian groaned, a headache throbbing at his temples. “He brought us juice?”

“Yeah man, guess he was feeling generous. Apparently he had to battle his way through the grabby women at that new supermarket down the road. That place is chock-full of cougars just waiting for—”

“I want him back.”

Ian didn’t want to jump to any conclusions, maybe it was just a kind gesture, a simple grocery delivery didn’t qualify for Shakespearean love. Mickey had a relationship with Fiona, and Debbie looked after Yevgeny sometimes. It could have been a token of appreciation to the family and not necessarily a citrus flavoured olive branch to the man who took off for years. Still, there was a little voice in his head that whispered hopeful things. He supposed that could also result from his burgeoning concussion.

Lip tousled Ian’s red hair with a gentle smile. “Soft bitch.”

“Think it’s a bad idea?”

“I think you’ve only been home a couple days, and you seem pretty—I dunno, strung out. I get wanting to get your dick wet, let off some steam, but you sure you wanna dive back into that total mess? I took time off work. Why don’t we hang out, man? Catch up a little.”

Ian watched a lopsided grin settle on his brother’s face. Impossible to do anything but mirror it. “I’m not strung out Lip.”

“You almost split Mickey in half flying through the door.”

“I was goin’ for a run. I’m still trying to find my bearings.” He excused, reaching for the water Liam left for him, the ice cubes clinking against the glass as he brought it to his mouth. “Weird that you guys are like friends with him.”

“Small world, man. When shit went down with Svetlana, it was big news around here. Fiona almost refused the case.”

“Why didn’t she?”

Lip fixated on his hands, deciding not to tread too deeply in those waters. “I’m not fuckin’ around, you’re on edge. What happened to you over there, Ian?”

He huffed out a humorless breath, glancing at his brother somberly. “The kinda shit that puts a man on edge, I guess.”

\----------

Mickey leaned against the sink, his back twitching as he adjusted to cold porcelain, scrubbing at the stubborn bloodstain on his shirt. Linda would have his ass for closing the store during business hours, but he couldn’t exactly face customers wearing the blood of his enemy, could he?

He checked his phone obsessively, alternating between reading his conversation with the youngest Gallagher sister, and trying desperately to erase his impetuous attempt at seeing Ian Gallagher up close again. The redhead crawled inside his head like a whistling teakettle, and all he needed to do to make it stop was take it off the heat. He knew it was stupid to think they could rekindle their connection with a jug of squeezed oranges. The soldier plowing into him like a blind man in a relay race was just one more example of their dysfunction. Maybe the world was trying to warn them they were a few peas short of a casserole together and reigniting their relationship was asking for trouble.

His grocery delivery was a moment of weakness, but he didn’t technically buy it for Ian, anyway. It was a breakfast essential, and he did it for the greater good of the Gallagher family, who had done a lot for him over the recent months. Sure, Ian looked a little worse for wear in the energy department, but it had absolutely nothing to do with him not wanting Ian to traipse all over town searching for a stupid drink, or it being his favourite juice, or that he simmered in guilt not being able to fulfill his need after he left the store empty-handed.

He grumbled at the growing pink mass soaking through his shirt, grinding it further and further into the fibers, trying to disregard his mounting concerns about Ian’s injury and his internal contradictions. Nothing was going to get the stain out, no amount of denial, no amount of elbow grease. Sometimes a blemish burrowed so deep that it could only fade, leaving traces behind that he couldn’t ignore. He would have to throw it away and never look back if he wanted to avoid a life of stain removers and heartbreak.


	4. The Mission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If someone could PLEASE tell Mickey about those letters soon, that would be great.

Mickey stared at the lazy drops of water sweating down his beer glass, stopping one droplet with the edge of his nail, the liquid flowing around his fingertip, seemingly unbothered by the barricade. The resilience reminded him of Ian, but everything did, condensation was no exception to the rule.

Kev laughed boisterously in the distance at one of his new hipster customers as they tried to land a lame joke, the pub owner only entertaining the jockstrap for better tips. A bartender trick at The Alibi Room. Mildly amusing, but never something worth writing home about. Mickey didn’t come around much as of late, and if Fiona hadn’t strongly encouraged him to spend some time away from the house once in a while, he likely never would. He was not a perfect father, but he chose time with Yevgeny over most other things since Svetlana disappeared.

“Iggy watching the kid tonight?” Kev asked, swiping a questionably sanitary rag across the sticky counter top.

“Yeah. My night out apparently.” Mickey drawled, spinning his empty glass languidly. “Self care and all that bullshit. Part of my how-to-be-a-better-parent plan.”

“That shit is for real, man. If me and V didn’t take time away from the girls sometimes, it’d be Nightmare on Elm Street up in here.” Kev said, filling a fresh glass and plunking the drink in front of the tipsy Milkovich. “Still no word from your baby mama, eh?”

Mickey smirked, downing half the glass at the mention of her. “Nada.”

“Think she’ll come back?”

“Fuck if I know.”

Kev nodded, pained at the thought of V ever leaving. He sauntered toward the storage room, shouting over his shoulder. “Sometimes they come back.”

A flash of red hair breezed through the door, broad shoulders shrugging off a familiar coat, the orange hood reminding him of all the things he had been trying to forget. He glanced away, hoping the redhead wouldn’t spot him, but as if Ian was a ship, and he was a lighthouse, they found each other.

“Hey, Mick. Didn’t expect to see you here.” Ian said, the grin quirking up on his mouth a dead giveaway.

“Army didn’t teach you how to lie worth shit.” He mumbled, swirling the amber liquid in his glass before sliding his phone out of his pocket. “Iggy already blew your cover, nice try though.”

Ian scrunched his nose, an embarrassed chuckle huffing through his lips. “I stopped by to say thanks for yesterday. He said you would be here.”

“You got nothin’ to thank me for, man.”

“Sure I do.” Ian chimed, holding up his bandaged arm. “This woulda been way worse if you weren’t there to catch my fall.”

Mickey’s eyes darted around them anxiously, lowering his voice. “Whatever, clumsy feet.”

They sent each other gentle smiles through sidelong glances, Kev interrupting their private moment with a whoop of excitement.

“We’ve got a soldier with us here tonight, let’s show him some respect. A round of drinks for everyone, on the house!”

The pub came to life with various shades of inebriated celebration, Ian nodding humbly, sending a wave over his shoulder with a chuckle. “How’s it goin’ Kev?”

“Goin’ good, brother! What can I grab for you? We need not water anything down anymore, so what you see is what you get.” The bar owner grinned, jazz hands accenting the shelves of liquor behind him.

“Uh—a shot of tequila, please. Been a while since I had one of those.”

“You guys don’t drink over there?” Mickey asked, nodding at Kev for another beer.

“We do—not in combat zones, but yeah. Sometimes our unit would let loose. I tried to stay away from the hard stuff though.”

“Pussy.” Mickey teased, his heartbeat quickening as the redhead tossed back his shot. He let his eyes linger over the muscles and veins protruding from his sturdy neck, glancing away quickly.

“Gonna do some shots with me, Milkovich?” Ian asked, brushing the toe of Mickey’s boot with his own. “Or are you too scared?”

Electric shocks spread through him, wanting so badly to lean into the touch. “Bitch, I could drink you under the table with half a liver.”

“Wanna bet?”

“Alright Sergeant Cocky, let’s put this to the test. Your G.I. Joe act doesn’t fool me, you’re still a freckly little fuck in my eyes, y’know that?”

Ian tilted his head innocently, whispering below the noise. “Long as I’m in your eyes, I got no complaints.”

A full head of blonde hair attached to a pair of long legs set a target to Mickey, her black stilettos catching the reflection of the neon signs hung haphazardly around the place. “Can I buy you a drink, sweetheart?”

Their uninvited guest dragged her sultry eyes across his body, twisting him up inside. His stomach tightened when he accepted the offer, the way the redhead’s jaw clenched not entirely lost on him as he spoke. “Sure.”

“Your friend here won’t mind?” She purred, sliding the stool impossibly close to Mickey’s, slipping a manicured hand over his shoulder.

“Nothing to worry about here.” He grimaced, slapping his hands against the bar dejectedly. “He’s all yours.”

“Ian—”

“No, it’s fine.” He blurted, eyes fixated on shiny red nails. “I gotta head out, anyway.”

Before Mickey could slip a word in edge-wise, the redhead disappeared.

\----------

Ian’s chin quivered, jealousy and heart ache bubbling up inside him as he fumbled for his pack of smokes. It had reduced him to the fifteen-year-old kid he once was, pining for the same dark-haired boy like a lovesick animal. The cool night air soothed his reddening ears, as he willed away the tears threatening to spill across his cheeks. Their interaction was painfully sobering. The trees he carved with their names inside his head faded, the novel that held their story sinking into the dark abyss where the rest of his dismal thoughts lived. He imagined their first days back together in his head hundreds of different ways, and in all scenarios. He never expected to feel hopeless. Hollow.

“Gallagher!” Mickey called out, thundering footsteps breaking the stream of depressive thoughts ricocheting inside the confines of his mind.

He didn’t stop. He didn’t turn. There was no point.

“Ian—can you please fuckin’—would you stop for a second?”

His strides grew until his feet lifted off the ground, and he found himself in a full out sprint, running full tilt from the voice behind him. He wanted to evaporate; he wanted someone to pluck him from his reality and put him back on the front lines of the war where he belonged.

“Stop!” Mickey bellowed, snatching the back of his jacket, and yanking him to a halt. “Why are you always runnin’ from me?”

Bitter tears burned his eyes. “Let me go!”

“Not until you cut out this stupid shit!” Mickey panted angrily.

“Let go of my fucking jacket, Mickey.”

“No.”

“Fuck off.” Ian sniveled, thrashing from the confines of his coat, making his escape down the nearest alley.

Mickey had every shortcut in their neighborhood mapped out in his head, cleverly intercepting the errant redhead two blocks down, tackling him to the ground. “You gonna quit already? Jesus fucking Christ!”

“I hate you.” Ian sobbed into his hands, long freckled fingers hiding his frustrated face. “Coming home was a mistake. This place sucks so fucking much.”

“Yeah well, I hate you too, you dramatic prick.” Mickey said, wrapping his arms around the redhead, so he couldn’t take off again, ragged breaths puffing into the night between them. “I hate you for leaving, and I hate you for coming back.”

“Then let me go, asshole.” Ian said thickly, writhing against his grip. “Let me go and I’ll never come back. You can fuck every goddamn slut in Chicago, see if I care.”

Mickey scoffed, pulling his body closer while Ian’s enraged groans quaked through them both. “I thought soldiers were calm and shit. You smokin’ meth or something?”

“You’re a dick.”

“Takes one to know one, bitch.”

The last of Ian’s energy depleted, leaving his body like an apparition. Mickey loosened his grip, stumbling to his feet, reaching out to pull the redhead up with him. Ian shivered as the breeze hit his sweaty body.

“Here.” Mickey muttered, fixing the inside-out sleeves of the redhead’s coat. “Put this back on before you catch your fuckin’ death.”

“I think I can handle a little cold, thanks.”

“Your skin is vibrating clean off your bones, man.”

Ian rolled his eyes, reluctantly obliging. “Better get back to Pamela Anderson, buddy. Don’t wanna disappoint your date. She had a set of silicone bolt-ons. Looks like a night of fun for you.”

Mickey cringed, pulling at his collar for ventilation. “Why you actin’ like such a girl, huh?”

“Fuck you, Mick.”

“Fuck you—you don’t understand this at all.”

“Why don’t you explain it for me then, huh?” Ian seethed, pulling at the broken zipper on his coat, resorting to snapping the clasp off. “Explain to me how you can justify living like this, fuckin’ blondes with tacky ass nails scratching against your back.”

“You jealous?”

“Jealous? Give me a break.” He huffed indignantly, squaring his shoulders at the accusation. “If she has a cock, you let me know. Until then, I couldn’t care less.”

Inked fingers slid a cigarette effortlessly from the pack, a gust of smoke drifting from flared nostrils. “You’re a shitty liar.”

Ian’s phone vibrated incessantly against his thigh, reaching for the device to keep the green monster from pouring out. He had never yearned to be a blonde bar fly more in his entire life. “It’s Lip. I gotta go.”

“Lemme walk you home, man.”

“Don’t need an escort. You go enjoy your night of peroxide and cheap perfume, maybe I’ll take a page from your book—attach myself to the first swingin’ dick I see.”

Mickey pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yeah, you do that. I’m sure there are plenty of fucks around here waitin’ to cash in on the whole army fantasy.”

“I’m leaving.”

“Leave, then.”

Ian wanted to turn on his heel and skulk away, but his feet and brain were on two different wavelengths. Mickey’s glare burned holes into his own, watching him like he was prone to bursting into flames.

“You’re annoying.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah.” Ian snorted, congested from confused emotion.

“What’re you doin’ here then?”

Ian didn’t have an answer, his words trapped somewhere at the base of his throat.

Mickey kicked the plastic garbage can attached to the bus stop sign hard enough to knock the bin off its hinges, the scent of old soda and BBQ sauce wafting through the air, contents spilling on the street. Ian didn’t move a muscle, his combat ready body planted firmly in place.

This time, it was Mickey’s turn to run away.

\----------

Mickey spent several agonizing days lying low in the Milkovich house, packing up what few belongings they had gained over the years, and reflecting on Ian’s homecoming. He spent the first day pumped full of determination to think of anything in the world aside from the redhead, but after a long and lonely night cursing the clock, he stared defeat in its face, and boy was it freckled.

It took almost two years after the redhead left, for the symphony of all things Ian to stop clamoring for attention within the walls of his mind. Twenty-three months and six days to be exact. He remembered the moment almost like the day he disappeared, because the morning after, much like when he realized he lost Ian for good, he cried until his eyes swelled. It was a poignant mark of time that riddled him with confusion and self loathing. He couldn’t understand why remembering his lover hurt almost as much as forgetting him.

Ian was his first and only experience with genuine desire. He had crushes throughout his childhood years, favoring certain classmates for one insignificant detail or another, but Ian was his first tumbling descent into infatuation, and it changed him on a chemical level. The odds were undeniably stacked against him, and his circumstances were not helpful to a relationship with another boy, but suddenly, his body craved him like a magnet needed iron and it threw his inhibitions to the wind.

He picked through the incident with Svetlana with a fine-tooth comb. Enough times to qualify for obsession. The redhead stopped filling every space in his head after many months, but every so often nostalgia would hit him like an empty fridge on his hungriest day, and it would remind him. He tortured himself with every vantage point of that day, and the moments leading up to it. When depression crippled him, he would try to tell himself that it wasn’t his fault. He made love in his childhood home where they should have been safe. He invited a boy to stay with him under a roof where he didn’t have to be afraid of the juvenile delinquents in the surrounding bunks of the group home he was staying in. He wanted Ian to be safe. He needed him to be. It scorched the myelin from his nerves to know he would have been safer anywhere else. If Terry had never caught them together, it would have been different, so different.

It carved him up in anger and resentment that Ian left, but he couldn’t blame him. He tried when the days became empty, and the nights became hopeless, but it never stuck. He knew the incident was destabilizing for Ian too. They were just kids. The contradictions were almost too much to bear, detesting him so much, yet begging the universe to bring him back. He lost himself in fantasies more than he cared to admit. Ian showing up at their door and beating the shit out of Terry, so they could run away together was a recurring theme. Packing up whatever car Iggy stole that week, to drive as far as the gas tank would take them, starting fresh in a new city. He would squeeze his eyes shut to block out his excruciating domestic life, imagining Ian’s lips on every surface of his body, bringing him to the only release he could find in a home with a wife he didn’t choose.

There were even some nights where he was brave enough to go searching. He thought about knocking on the Gallagher door, pouring his heart out and begging for any shred of information that might bring them together again. It peeled him back to nothing but vulnerability and desperation, but the idea was more tolerable than the grief that drowned him. Mickey would make it as far as his shoes and jacket, before reminding himself that Ian didn’t want him anymore. If he wanted him, he would have reached out. If he wanted him, he never would have left.

Ian wrote letters home for Mandy and his siblings, adorned with dirty fingerprints and dusty stamps, but he never, not once, sent one addressed to him. It told him everything he needed to know. He stopped holding to hope that the redhead would track him down at the ballpark wrapped in a pastel sunset, after his dad got too drunk to acknowledge that he took off. He stopped believing in the connection he so badly yearned for. One day he sat at his dining room table with his intolerable wife, and a child he didn’t know how to love, and accepted it as both his destiny and his doom.

So when the universe delivered his reason for breathing a few years too late, those green eyes slipping into the depths of his soul just a few feet away, it rocked him. It took the life he thought he knew and tilted the canvas. Now he was back to hiding in his decrepit home, tossing his fabricated life into a cardboard box, afraid to see Ian up close, but begging the galaxy and its stars to tap those knuckles on the other side of his door. He understood the implications of wrapping himself in those freckled arms again, and he knew their lives had taken different paths, but it didn’t stop him from wondering. What if?

“How ’bout this one? The lights don’t work anymore.” Mickey asked a distracted Yevgeny, who was fighting tooth and nail against dividing his toys into piles of keep and throw away.

“All of ’em papa.”

“Come on little man, we can’t take ’em all. No point carryin’ broken crap to the new place.”

“Please!” The little boy pleaded, melting his father with glossy eyes. “They’re my favourite.”

“This one doesn’t even have wheels anymore—look.” He contested, pricking his finger on the lonely axels. “We can get new toys, okay?”

“I don’t wanna. I love ‘em.” Yevgeny whined, throwing his head in his hands in anguish.

“Yev we need to sort this— _shit_ , who’s at the goddamn door?”

He recognized an angry knock like the back of his hands. It was customary to living in a home where understanding body language increased the chance of survival. It had been a long while since someone shattered their knuckles against the Milkovich dwelling, but every so often a debt collector came around looking for Terry. He couldn’t wait to be in a home where that didn’t happen anymore.

“Gallagher?”

“Where the fuck have you been?” Ian snapped.

“Where have I been?” Mickey barked back, shoving him hard and slamming the door behind him, separating Yevgeny from their spat. “You take off for a hundred years, and you’re asking me about my fucking whereabouts? Where do you get off—”

“I’ve looked for you everywhere. You haven’t been at work—Iggy wouldn’t let me in. I’m only home for a few more days, asshole!”

“Like I give a fuck!”

Ian slammed his palm against the door, trapping Mickey under his heated glare. “You’re worse at lying than I am.”

“Back off.” 

“We need to talk about this.”

Adrenaline pumped through his veins, fist twitching at his side. “Back off before I beat your fuckin’ ass, man.”

“Do it, Mickey. Hit me.” He growled, leaning so close he could sketch every pore with intricate detail. “That’s what we do, right?”

Mickey clenched his jaw, his body vibrating. “I can’t do this, Ian. I have a fuckin’ kid.”

“Can’t do what? Hit me, or be with me?” Ian retorted, chest heaving. “‘Cause I fuckin’ know you wanna be with me.”

“What are you talkin’ about, man? You’re losing it. You need to leave.” He stammered, moving his hands between them. “I need you to go.”

“I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

“The man asked you to leave.” Iggy drawled, watching the men fly apart like shrapnel. “Means you gotta leave, soldier.”

“Please Mick.” Ian murmured, his combat shoulders going limp. “You brought me juice.”

The older Milkovich leaned coolly against the fence, shrugging at the despondent ginger. “My bro is sweet on ya, so he’s a little more patient, but I sure as shit ain’t gonna ask you twice.”

Ian’s eyes searched his face for an ounce of promise, a shudder of dejected breath leaving his lips before he took off down the street like a bullet.

“Get the fuck in the house.” Iggy groaned, stomping up the stairs. “We gotta talk.”

\----------

Ian ran until his legs gave out, frustrated, gut wrenching sobs tearing through his chest. He knew coming back to Chicago was a mistake; he knew staying away from that house was impossible. As much as he hated to admit it, Fiona hit the nail on the head. Too much had happened, too much had gone wrong between them, to ever make it right. Seeing him again was like tearing open old wounds and dousing them in acid. He wanted to shout at the sky, punishing the powers that be for breaking his heart like this, but he pulled himself together, bracing against the dugout, reciting the soldier’s creed under his shuddering breath, desperate to regain composure.

_I am an American soldier._

_I am a warrior and a member of a team._

_I serve the people of the United States and live the army values._

_I will always place the mission first._

_I will never accept defeat._

_I will never quit._

_I will never leave a fallen comrade_ —

“Well, I can name _at least_ three that you’ve fucked up in the past hour.” Mickey smirked, hopping down from the tin roof, making the redhead jump. His voice was like honey through an hourglass, the sands of time taking them back to their summer together.

“How did you find me?” 

“Our spot, man.” Mickey said, cheeks hollowing around his cigarette, gray smoke spilling out in huffs of laughter. “Yevgeny would kick your ass at hide-and-seek. Can’t believe the government gave you a gun.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“What does?”

“Hide and seek.” Ian whispered, watching blades of grass sway in the field. “That was my favourite game as a kid. We always won ‘cause Frank and Monica were too fucked up to remember we were playin’. I spent an entire night in the closet once. Fell asleep waiting.”

“An entire night in the closet, huh? Sounds rough.” Mickey teased as his throat tightened. He hated that Ian was ever neglected, it hurt him more than his own childhood. “If you uh—if you ever wanna come by, Yev would love to have another person to play with. More fun when everyone’s sober, anyway.”

“I’d like that.” Ian murmured, his surroundings distorting under a film of salty water. “Mick, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it. Iggy ain’t even mad, he’s just—”

“I’m not talking about that. I’m sorry I left like I did. I regret how it all went down.”

Mickey nodded, wishing he could press his lips against the creases between Ian’s sad eyes, anything to take his hurt away. “I’m sorry I didn’t stop you.”

Frogs croaked in the tall grass around them, filling the air with a song they couldn’t understand. They listened to the tune like they wrote the lyrics themselves. This was their spot, and for now, they were together.

“Iggy likes you.”

The soldier huffed a breath through his nose, the cold metal of the chain-link fence against his fingers a contrast to the heat building inside him. “What makes you say that?”

“He sat me down, told me to stop bein’ a dickhead. I don’t know what you did to get on his good side, but I gotta say, I’m kinda impressed. Iggy’s a tough guy to convince.”

Mickey flicked his cigarette through the fence, swallowing hard. He shifted against the redhead’s back, slow, tattooed fingers reaching forward, lacing through freckled ones. He lay his head between Ian's shoulder blades, breathing in deep. “I missed you, Gallagher.”

“You have no idea.” Ian said, closing his eyes to the warmth of their touch, committing it to memory. “What happens now?”

His breath seeped through Ian’s shirt, pressing into his back as if he would disappear when the clock struck midnight. “You go back to work. I move into my new place.”

“I don’t wanna say goodbye. I can’t.” Ian said, pulling their entangled hands to his mouth, tightening Mickey around his back.

“So don’t.”

“What then? We just walk away, pretend we never happened?”

Ian’s warm breath spilling over his hands sent chills skating across his body. Hugging him for the first time in five years was like being pulled from the deep end of the pool, lungs emptied of water and replaced with something more infinite.

“I give you my number—you text me when you can. I call you when I can. We got a lot to catch up on.”

“I don’t wanna be friends, Mick.”

“We don’t gotta label it. Let’s try talkin’ to each other first. See how it goes. We gotta take it slow though, man. I’m not—”

“I can do that.” Ian murmured, closing his eyes, and inhaling the sensation of Mickey holding him. He craved all the sweet, sensual things. His body ached for them. It would be so easy to spin around and indulge, neither of them having very much strength against the allure of their attraction.

But he could be patient. He would. Ten years could pass before their lips touched, and Mickey Milkovich would still be worth the wait.

“Gonna disappear again?” Mickey asked, squeezing his hands around Ian’s.

“I won’t. I promise.” Ian sniveled, feeling himself relax in a blanket of that smell.

\----------

Moving to an apartment building just a few blocks away was a noteworthy accomplishment. Anvils of pent-up childhood memories plummeted from his shoulders, freeing him from their grasp, as the last box settled into the backseat. Svetlana took most of what was valuable when she left, but for the first time in months, he was confident that he could rebuild.

Fiona had been more than charitable, knocking a significant portion from his rent for a pledge of handiwork, which worked out in his favor since the building dripped fixer upper from the ceiling to the floor. A Milkovich didn’t accept help without great tribulation, stamped at birth to navigate the world alone. It would take time for him to adjust to a revolving door of handouts. The Gallaghers meant well, but after an avalanche of benevolence, he closed the door to the first home he’d ever had outside the Milkovich walls and let out a deep breath. Paint peeled in every room, and the floorboards creaked something awful, but it was his and it was Yevgeny’s.

He slept easy knowing they were safe from the spontaneous return of Terry, and the trauma that household radiated in spades. Yevgeny must have picked up on it because he went the whole night sleeping in his own bed, a milestone Mickey had been trying to reach with him for ages.

Parenting was a catch-22 most days, a steady flow of conundrums, but every time his little blonde son smiled, he celebrated a minor triumph. Father of the year awards didn’t arrive at his door, and sometimes he felt so frustrated he wanted to jump out the window, but he was trying. He still burned grilled cheese sandwiches when he got distracted, he’d only just learned that dish soap didn’t make for a good replacement for bath bubbles, and Rambo wasn’t the best film to play before bed, but without a solid example of child rearing, everything was up to trial and error. He was grateful to have the Gallaghers in his life. They were a mess of their own breed, but if there was one thing they had in abundance, it was love.

Svetlana was a loving mother while she was around. She took on a heavier workload than him by far. There were times he kicked himself for not appreciating it more, his resentment toward her being the redheaded elephant in the room. It was unfair for him to hate her when their son looked up to her so much, even long after she had left. He thought she was a piece of shit for running out without a word, and on the nights Yevgeny cried out for her, he wanted to wrap her in a plastic bag and toss her in Lake Michigan, but it didn’t change the fact that she was the mother of his child, and wishing ill on her felt a lot like wishing ill on his son.

He wondered if she would ever come looking for him. His own mother had a habit of disappearing that became a predictable routine for him and his siblings. Mandy took it the hardest, sitting by the window with a threadbare bag at her feet, certain their mother would return to take her to the paradise she built up in her head. It never happened, and when she stumbled back through the door, she was always a little more detached than before. He and Iggy learned to take it on the chin, but it seemed to chip away at their sister bit by bit, until she had a void so empty, it was impossible to fill. He was desperate to avoid it happening to his son.

“Fiona wanted you to have this.” Ian said casually, holding a chicken pot pie between them like a savory peace offering.

“Uh—okay. Why didn’t she drop it off?”

Ian’s playful grin faded, glancing at him like an unsolved puzzle. “She’s not supposed to. I guess I thought—well, I offered to do it.”

Mickey tapped his fingers against the doorjamb, deciding to grab the dish before the redhead self-destructed. “Thanks.”

“Can I come in?”

Mickey felt an involuntary flinch, and Ian picked up on it quickly. A surge of guilt traipsed through his body, wishing he was strong enough to give Ian what he wanted.

“Don’t really have time to hang out. Unpacking with a four-year-old is a nightmare.”

“I could help, I don’t mind.” Ian offered eagerly. “I enjoy unpacking.”

“Bullshit, man. Nobody enjoys unpacking.” 

“I’m serious! Before my first deployment, we had to block and brace the connex—my unit hated loading up the container, but I had a blast with it. I was the fastest—”

“Ian—”

“Yeah?”

“Another time, okay?” Mickey felt his chest constrict at the disappointment settling on his face. “Gimme a call later I’ll be around.”

“I leave tomorrow, Mick.”

“I know.”

The redhead huffed a defeated breath, reaching out to give Mickey’s shoulder a platonic shake. “Alright, I’ll call you.”

“I’m sorry if—”

“No, all good. I get it.” Ian said, forcing a smile. “Hey um—do you think you’d ever wanna come by the base? It would be fun for Yevgeny and you guys could meet the platoon. I might even get Yev a private tour of our combat vehicles.”

He chewed his bottom lip, trying not to catastrophize the idea. “You want me to drive out to Missouri?”

“You don’t have to drive, I can fly you guys out.”

“Okay Hugh Hefner, cool your jets.” Mickey chuckled, his belly warm from the grin quirking up on Ian’s lips. “You gonna visit us too?”

Ian shifted nervously on his feet. “I can. Easier if you come to me though.”

“Pfft, how d’you figure?” 

“Army doesn’t support spontaneity. I gotta give notice if I’m leaving post—I need to apply for a mileage pass. Lots of red tape, but I can do it once in a while. It kinda sucks the fun out, though. Plus, I think you guys would like it.”

Mickey’s gaze drifted to Ian’s fidgeting fingers, knowing it would put them to better use, splaying underneath his shirt. “I’ll think about it.”

“Think about it like—you’ll definitely come see me?”

“You’re demanding, y’know that?”

“I will never accept defeat. It’s a way of life, Mick.” Ian beamed, sliding a gentle hand across the other man’s hip, eliciting a sharp hitch in breath. “I’ll see you soon then?”

He took a step back, mischief written all over his body. “Maybe.”

“Hard to get’s makin’ me hard, Milkovich.” Ian whispered, bouncing his brows flirtatiously.

Mickey closed the door, a smile stinging his cheeks, leaving both men feeling homesick for each other already.


	5. See You Soon Then

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I wish love letters were still a thing.

Ian curled up on the couch in his childhood home, a fleece blanket wrapped loosely around his legs, apple cinnamon drifting through the living room courtesy of a nearby air freshener. The aroma reminded him of winter, and with Fiona being a frugal shopper, he figured the scent was likely a result of her stocking several discounted refills after the holidays. It made him think of Christmas, and what he had missed during the years they deployed him.

His last day home had been the best one yet, despite having to cope with some feelings of rejection from Mickey. He woke up appearing different, healthier. His body seemed rejuvenated, energy crackling beneath his skin as it always had. It had been a decent day to lick a few wounds, for whatever reason it all seemed more manageable. Coming back to the Southside was a tougher transition than he expected, in hindsight it might have been better for him to stay nestled safely in his barracks, until he adjusted. His mind hadn’t been right, and he attributed it to the shock of returning so soon. His life in Chicago, and the life he had lived the past several years, were opposites.

He wanted to return home with a brave face; he wanted to show them all how mentally tough he had become. It took a matter of days, hours really—for that barrier to shift. It exposed his weaknesses, surrounded by his family, but no matter how resilient and disciplined he had become, home would always be the place he could fall apart a little and not get ridiculed. It was safe to soften his rough edges and show his weak spots to the ones he cared for most, and to his surprise, after all the time that had passed, it still included Mickey.

“Whatcha doin’?” Fiona asked, crawling in beside him on the couch. “Where’d all these letters come from?”

Ian reached into the bag, handing her an envelope from the middle of the stack. “I wrote these for Mickey.”

A smile pulled at the corners of her mouth as she ran her fingers over the dust-stained paper. “How come you never sent ‘em?”

“I did.” He said, smelling the letter in his hand. “His dad trashed anything I tried to get to him. That’s what Iggy said, anyway.”

“Does that sound like something Terry would do?” She asked, inspecting the bag with gentle, curious eyes.

“Definitely.” Ian chuckled. “He found out about us. It didn’t go so well.”

Fiona tilted her head, looking at the exhaustion etched on her younger brother’s face. War had earned him a few stress lines, and she thought he looked more beautiful than ever. “I’m really fuckin’ proud of you. I need you to realize that. I’m sorry your homecomin’ was a bit of a mess.”

“Nah, it was great. Really.” He said, handing her another envelope. “I’ve been feeling pretty off for a while. None of that was on you guys.”

“I can’t imagine going through what you’ve been through, Ian. Must’ve been a mind fuck coming back to discover how much had changed. The situation with Mickey was a surprise to me, too. I almost didn’t wanna take it on at first.”

“Why?”

She paused, grinning when he wrapped his arm around her. “They remind me a lot of us. It hurts to look at the same kinda pain, just from a unique vantage point. Puttin’ together that file, it kept me up at night sometimes. I mean, we got a pretty fucked up family, but what those kids have been through, it’s awful.”

“Yeah, I know.” Ian whispered, sliding his finger under the paper flap, a neatly folded letter cushioned inside. “I think that’s why I fell so hard for Mickey when we were kids. I didn’t really have to explain, y’know? He just kinda got it. I went to him after Monica—well, after that whole situation. He was good to me. He didn’t have to give a shit about me, but he did.”

“Comin’ from a broken family doesn’t make you unworthy, Ian. You’re deserving of all that love.”

“He really made me feel that.” He sniffed, smoothing out a page, capturing his bare soul in jottings.

“Wanna read it to me?” She asked, resting her head on his shoulder. “I could use a good love story right about now.”

“Well, I dunno about _love story_ , it’s pretty fuckin’ pathetic if you ask me. But um—this one’s from my first stop in the Middle East. We didn’t go straight to Afghanistan, we had to stop in Kuwait for a month to acclimate, and train some more before going into any active war zones.” He said, feeling her tense up at the mention of his journey. “You sure you wanna hear it?”

Fiona nudged him playfully, urging him along. “Read.”

“ _Dear Mickey,_

_I’m writing to you with a pencil I found rolling around on the floor of an airplane, but it doesn’t have an eraser so I’m sorry if it’s a little messy or I have to scribble stuff out. I have nothing of my own yet. Mostly the clothes on my back, and whatever the army has given me. It doesn’t bother me much, the minimalistic lifestyle. You’re the only thing I ever had that held value to me, anyway. You’re the only thing I wish I had right now._

_We’re sleeping in this giant tent, rows and rows of uncomfortable cots lined up, it’s pretty interesting to hear how many octaves exist in a group of snoring men. I have trouble falling asleep sometimes; it sounds like I’m in a camp-out with hibernating bears. We’ve switched to late night missions, back to back, so now we have to learn to sleep during the day. It’s wild. I kind of prefer it because the triple-digit desert heat is intense. I burn like a motherfucker, and I have sand in parts I didn’t even know sand could go. We’re not on the Southside anymore, Toto. Did you ever check out that movie? The Wizard of Oz kinda freaked me out, but if I had a pair of ruby slippers, I’d click the heels and come home to you._

_How are you? Are things going okay at home? I guess that’s probably a stupid question. New platoons keep showing up, and I can’t tear my eyes away. I keep hoping one of them will be you. Stupid, right?_

_I love you, Mickey. I guess we never talked about it, but I just wanted you to know. I miss you so much it hurts. I hope this letter gets to you. Sometimes the mail gets lost._

_Ian._

“Well its official, you’ve just been upgraded to _super gay_.” A voice teased him from the staircase.

Ian glanced back at his older brother, who had huddled down on the steps to eavesdrop on his siblings. “Oh please, you wish you were as gay as me.”

“How long you been sittin’ back there?” Fiona asked, patting the empty spot next to them. “Get your ass down here, read with us.”

With a groan and a stretch, Lip was back to his feet, chuckling quietly to himself. “Mick still hasn’t seen them has he?”

“Nope.”

“Gonna stop bein’ a pussy and deliver ‘em already?”

“I’m not sure if I should. Don’t wanna pressure him.” Ian explained, passing an envelope to his brother. “It’s a lot.”

The older Gallagher shuffled through the pile, grabbing another one that looked significantly cleaner than the rest. “This one isn’t all caked in dirt. When did you send it?”

“Good eye.” Ian said, lingering on a letter he remembered surprisingly well. “I sent that one when I got back to base the first time. I’d written him so many by that point that I was a little pissed off. Don’t think I’m gonna give him that one.”

“Well, I’m no relationship expert, but I think he should read them all. They’re technically his, right?” Lip suggested unwrapping the plastic from a fresh pack of cigarettes and handing a smoke to each of his siblings.

Fiona shook her head, flicking the lighter until it came to life, a burning ember followed by a puff of smoke. “Come on Lip, you never had a voicemail or text message you wished you could take back?”

“I mean, yeah. But that’s part of the experience, right? If we had the ability to go back and edit all our mistakes, I don’t understand how any of us would grow as people.”

“I told Mickey I hated him the other night.” Ian confessed, wincing when his sister shot him a scolding glare. “I didn’t mean it, obviously. I was just mad. I wish I could take that back.”

Lip tapped his ashes against a plate on the coffee table, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. “I get wanting to take it back but hear me out though. Sometimes we’re assholes.”

“Excellent insight. Deeply profound.” Ian blurted, eliciting an eruption of giggles between them.

“Shut up okay? I’m serious. Sometimes we say stupid shit when we’re stuck in our heads, and we let our emotions get the best of us. It’s not always great, and I’m definitely not petitioning for unhealthy relationships or whatever, but as long as you realize you don’t mean it, and you don’t make a habit of saying hurtful shit, those heated fights only make room for you guys to learn more about each other. Boundaries and all that.”

“Wow. When did you get so philosophical?” Ian asked, grunting out a laugh when Lip sent a jab to his stomach. “Hey, easy on the goods!”

“ _My sponsor_. The AA shit can get pretty redundant, but I’ve learned a lot.”

“So what are you saying? I should drop this bag off before I go?”

“I’m saying you should focus less on the stuff you can’t change. You have your entire life ahead of you, Ian. If you keep kickin’ yourself for every misstep, you’ll never move forward.” Lip said, shrugging his shoulders, a mischievous grin breaking up his serious one. “Give him the letters, don’t give him the letters, that’s up to you, bro. Just whatever you do, please record that shit, ‘cause I’m dyin’ to see Mickey’s reaction to all this _cheese_. There must be like a hundred letters here.”

“You’re such an asshole.” Fiona giggled, sauntering into the kitchen, and returning with tall glasses of iced tea.

\----------

The Gallaghers stood together in front of their house, getting in as many hugs as they could before Ian had to hit the road again. Two weeks went by in a flash, and Fiona’s strangled sobs certainly paid homage to that.

“When will you be back?” Debbie asked, her arms wrapped tightly around his waist.

“Soon, Debs. I’ll come visit soon. You guys can visit me anytime, okay?”

“Cool!” Liam said, moving in for another squeeze. “I’ve always wanted to see what an army base looked like.”

Carl saluted his big brother, beaming with pride. “Can’t fuckin’ wait to be a soldier like you. Put in a good word for me, ‘kay?”

Just as Ian was about to respond to his enthusiastic siblings, a familiar face meandered their way, filling Ian with butterflies.

“Mickey.”

“Eh, glad I didn’t miss the send off. Linda’s lookin’ after Yev, Iggy had something come up. It was a whole thing—anyway. You’re really headin’ back, huh?”

Ian saw his siblings mosey back into the house, blowing him kisses and waving goodbye like he was boarding the Titanic and they already perceived it was set to sink in the North Atlantic. He got a pang of homesickness as they walked away, but he was grateful to have time with Mickey.

“Yeah. Uncle Sam says jump, and I ask _how high_.” Ian joked, hoping to ease his nervousness with a little self deprecating humor.

“You’re an ugly motherfucker.” Mickey said, his hungry eyes drinking in the handsome soldier, his freshly pressed service uniform turning heads with every passerby. “They make you wear this a lot?”

“Oh this old thing? Yeah. They want us to represent the military like good boys when we’re mingling with the community.”

“You’re a God among the peasants.” Mickey smirked, following the freckled hand reaching covertly for his own.

“Can I?” Ian asked, holding his hand an inch above Mickey’s, desperate to touch him. “It’s okay if—”

“Go for it.” He said, stiffening when their fingers intertwined. “Sorry—I’m not used to it yet. It’s cool though if you wanna keep holdin’ it—my hand.”

“I do.” Ian murmured, his adoration for Mickey bursting at the seams as his toothy grin graced his steadily blushing cheeks.

“I talked to Linda about takin’ some time off.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. She gave me the green light for the beginning of next month. Think we can come meet you around then?” Mickey asked, sucking on his bottom lip anxiously.

“Fuck yes!” He blurted, heat rising in his own cheeks. “I mean—whatever. Have your people call my people.”

“You’re such a dork.”

“Takes one to know one, _bitch_.” Ian teased, bringing Mickey’s hand up to his mouth, kissing his angry tattoos with care. “I really don’t wanna leave, but—”

“No, I get it. Duty calls.”

“Duty calls.” Ian sighed, slowly relaxing his grip on Mickey’s fingers until they fell away completely. “See you soon, then?”

“See you soon, then.”

The redhead jogged across the street, unlocking his car with a familiar _beep_.

“Hey Gallagher?” Mickey called out, chortling when Ian whipped around so fast, he almost tripped.

“Yeah?”

“Text me when you get there, okay?”

“You got it.” Ian shouted, slipping into the driver’s seat, the engine roaring to life.

Before Mickey made it half a block, a notification pinged on his phone.

_**Miss you already.** _


	6. No Strings Attached

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian finds himself having to tie up some loose ends.

Ian let his eyes wander from the road to his phone a shameful number of times, as if it held the remedy for aging, or a tincture for eternal life. Wind blew tendrils of hair across his forehead, the lines on the pavement flitting by, measuring the distance between him and his childhood love.

It had been a long time since he got excited about a text message. It had been even longer since he was lucky enough to anticipate one from Mickey.

Ian had met no one he’d fallen for since his Southside heartbreak, but he hadn’t strapped on a chastity belt, and devoted himself to the good Lord either. He chalked it up to his lifestyle. When anyone asked, he’d tell them they married him to the army and leave it at that. He’d let himself venture beyond the walls of his barracks when the urge struck for companionship, sometimes allowing himself to enjoy it, but anything of depth was so far from his radar it was obsolete.

Sgt. Ortiz was the closest he’d ever gotten to a relationship of substance. Their collective passion for fitness, and their shared interest in sappy books hidden in the crevices of the military base didn’t set them on a path to diamond rings and a white picket fence, but it was enough to satiate them when the sun descended behind the compound.

Ian tried to distance himself when his comrade got that look in his eyes, pools of chocolate begging him for more, but it was tough living in the same building. He transferred to the motor pool, hoping that if they worked separate jobs, it would make it easier to walk away. It only seemed to make the other man more determined to bridge the gap.

“Gallagher!” Sgt. Ortiz shouted, his camouflage fatigues tugging in all the right spots as he jogged his way over. “You just get back?”

“Yeah. Stopped in at the library. But I’m beat. Headin’ inside to grab some shuteye.”

“Want company?” He asked, guiding a toothpick across his teeth. “They got lasagna for lunch—your favourite. I can grab some, bring it up to you.”

Ian shifted on his feet, aware of his hands and how awkward they were, hanging at his sides. “I’m gonna pass on that today, thanks though. I’m wiped out.”

Sgt. Ortiz toed at the ground, looking up at Ian through thick lashes. “Did you see him?”

“Who?” Ian knew who he was referring to but buying a little time didn’t hurt.

“Come on, Ian. Be straight with me.”

Ian sucked in a breath, his body desperate for respite from the road and a little peace. “I saw him.”

Ortiz dipped his head in a defeated nod, knowing full well that his chances with Ian had diminished. “Look, I need to pick up a few things from the PX, but I’m still on break for a couple more days. Hit me up if you wanna catch up in the chow hall tonight.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Ian said, hoping his expression came across as apologetic as he meant it to.

“We’re all good, dude. You gotta fill me in on your trip back home. I need the lowdown on your gangsta Romeo.”

Ian let out a sleepy laugh, the star-crossed-lover-encapsulation of Mickey bringing warmth to his belly. “I’m guessing that makes me Juliet?”

“The one and only!” Sgt. Ortiz razzed, before taking off toward the Post Exchange to do his shopping.

Ian expected confrontation, but it seemed Ortiz was unaffected. He wondered if it would bite him in the ass down the line.

He and Ortiz had been on the same deployment his second time around, and they spent a decent amount of time sharing about their lives back home, sliding against crumbling walls during a raid, or crowded in an armoured vehicle on watch. If Mickey’s name came up less than a thousand times, it would be a shock. He wasn’t shy about his sexuality, or his love for the Southside thug. Ian didn’t shout it from the rooftops, but when his comrades hunkered down together, whispering about their families, it was in his heart to do the same.

He caught up with a couple buddies on his way to the third floor of the barracks, making his way back to his room in record time. He slid his key card in the battered slot once, then twice, before the green light chimed, welcoming him to his private room, where his moderately comfortable bed was waiting for him.

His room mimicked one found in an average hotel, except for a decent-sized kitchen, and a spattering of his own décor. He was more than satisfied with his space, given that he no longer had to share a room since reaching a higher rank. It was a pain in the ass having to split with other soldiers.

Before he could crawl under the covers, his phone vibrated.

**_You make it there alive, Captain Clumsy?_ **

If they attached his grin to a solar panel, he would be able to provide power to the entire base.

**_Just getting settled into my room now. I was about to text you. I swear this bed has never looked more comfortable._ **

Several minutes dragged by before he got a response, and a cocky one at that.

**_Bet my bed is more comfortable than yours._ **

His heart rate picked up, imagining the process of that scientific experiment.

**_Are you flirting with me, Milkovich?_ **

Twenty minutes and a hot shower later, sweet words sent a surge of excitement to his nether regions.

**_Gotta make up for lost time._ **

It boosted Ian with a second wave, a reserve of energy with Mickey’s name on it. He wanted to pinch himself to make sure it wasn’t all a dream. He was away for a long time, but he was back now, eager to do everything in his power to make it right.

**_Want a tour of my room?_ **

Mickey’s response came through, the warmth in his body morphing into pure excitement.

**_If you show me yours, I’ll show you mine._ **

Ian walked around the room, snapping shots of every significant portion of his space, including his service uniform laid neatly at the foot of his bed. He hoped Mickey would pick up on the fact that he was no longer dressed in more than a towel. He was fifteen shades of giddy when the text he’d been hoping for came through.

**_Whoa, wait a minute. Does the army give you footie pajamas for your downtime?_ **

He took one more photo, his towel hanging devilishly low on his muscular torso.

**_Something like that._ **

Mickey put Ian’s confidence to the test, half an hour ticking by before the air returned to his lungs.

**_I hope Iggy can get his damn car fixed in time. Might have to book that flight._ **

Ian laughed until he was certain he’d developed a few more core muscles, his heart fluttering. If it was all a dream, he had every intention of staying in this most pleasant coma. He was on top of the world, awaiting the day Mickey and Yevgeny came to visit. 

\----------

Mickey paced his apartment, reading through the text messages over and over, expanding every photo to absorb the finer details. Ian had a nice-looking place, but the last shot was the real meat and potatoes, almost giving him a brain aneurism. Caught between wanting to delete it and printing out a life-size cardboard copy. He settled for saving it to a locked folder in his phone.

Taking it slow was already proving to be a daunting task, a sneak peek beneath his army garb only making that mission more challenging. He adjusted the bulge pressing against his jeans, glancing around his quiet apartment, undecided on how he wanted to handle his sudden arousal.

Iggy offered to take Yevgeny for the night, so he’d be able to child proof the place, and finish the last of their unpacking. He’d used his pent up energy since the redhead left, to power through most of it, until Ian’s washboard abs, sprinkled by an abundance of the most beautiful freckles, had him rendered useless.

If he caved to temptation with the help of Ian Gallagher, it would bring the sweetest release. Walking away from his phone and devoting himself to slow and steady did not seem like the practical option.

“Fuck it.” He whispered to himself, ransacking a nearby box for lotion.

He wasn’t just bragging; his bed was hands down the most comfortable one either of them would ever know. Iggy was connected with some premium furniture company that had an order fall off the back of a truck. Three rounds of rock, paper, scissors, earning him the mattress and bedframe. As he sank into the memory foam layers, he magnified the picture of Ian in all its glory.

Another buzz, another text from Ian.

**_Can I call you?_ **

Mickey put the phone down to undo his pants, sliding them down past his knees.

**_Not a good time, Gallagher._ **

Heat crept up his cheeks, wondering if Ian suspected his current transgression, but the bead of pre-cum building in his slit helped him shrug it off. He ran his fingers through his sweaty patch of fuzz, reaching lower to cup his tightening balls, massaging them with back bending pressure.

**_Gonna send me a photo of you? That was kinda the agreement, right? I showed you mine._ **

Damn it, Gallagher.

**_Shh._ **

He stroked himself with a slow pace at first, taking time to run the pad of his thumb over his eager veins, focusing special attention on the ridge of his head, a place that made his legs quiver with the right kinds of kisses. Adrenaline crackled through him, nervous about the recent turn of events.

**_My eyes are getting heavy, I’m gonna grab a nap before dinner. I’m thinking of you, Mick. Wish you were here._ **

_I’m thinking of you_. He read the words more times than he’d ever care to admit, tossing his phone on the bedside table before picking up the pace.

It didn’t take much, a dozen hard strokes with his eyes squeezed shut, before familiar milky warmth oozed through his fingers. It was going to be difficult to hold back when they were together. Mission impossible, maybe.

**_Thinking of you too._ **

\----------

Ian’s alarm buzzed in his ear, waking him from his nap with fervor. Rest seemed to make him more exhausted. He stumbled into the kitchen, rattling a multivitamin into his hand, mixing himself a quick protein shake to wash it down.

The mess hall was louder than usual, soldiers from his unit returning from their vacations, some of them bringing guests. He watched them smile at each other; the civilians glancing around, their wide eyes taking it all in. Ian enjoyed watching the families of soldiers, they always looked thrilled by the unusual surroundings.

He stood in the main line, glancing at the menu, settling on meatloaf. He needed something with sustenance, anything to pick him up from his mental fog.

“Hey Ian!” Melissa said, her friendly eyes accented with rosy cheeks. “Sgt. Gallagher, I mean.”

Ian slid his tray along the rails, her familiar face bringing him comfort. “It’s Ian to you, Missy. You know that.”

“How was your time off? You missed lasagna!”

“It was alright, I’m glad to be back though.” He confessed, observing her smooth movements in the kitchen. She was one of the best cooks they had on base.

“Glad to have you back! Nobody appreciates my food like you do.” She grinned, pretty as a picture, even in her hairnet. “How’s your family?”

“They’re good, can’t believe how much has changed.”

“No doubt. That was your first time back, right? I bet they missed you like crazy.”

He nodded. “It was a little intense, but I missed them too.” As he waited for his dish, he looked around, an idea springing in his mind, along with Mickey’s handsome face. “Hey—can I ask you for a favour?”

She bounced on the balls of her feet, her cheerful nature radiating like rays of sunshine. “Anything!”

“What would a soldier have to do to clear out the hall for midnight chow? I don’t know if its happened before, but there’s someone I’d like to bring out.”

Her nose crinkled as she took a few beats to think. “You can bring ‘em in, civilians may partake in midnight chow as long as they’re gone by curfew.”

“I know. He’s not—well, let’s just say I was hoping to ease him into it.”

“Oh, it’s a _he_ we’re talking about.” Melissa chimed, giggling like she was holding a treasured secret. “You’re hoping for a brief romance in the chow hall?”

Her enthusiasm was infectious, and it made his impulsive idea more enticing. “I think so. Is that weird?”

“Not at all.” She said, sliding a hot plate of mouth-watering food onto his tray, thick mushroom gravy spilling around his mashed potatoes. “I’ll ask around, see what I can do. You might owe someone in the kitchen crew a few favours.”

“You’re amazing.” He beamed, taking a whiff of the seasoned meat. “Thanks for everything.”

A group of soldiers hollered at his back, banging on the table to get his attention.

“You’re very welcome.” She said with a smirk, patting him on the hand before glancing over his shoulder. “You better get going, Sergeant. Your cavalry is waiting.”

\---------- 

He all but shoveled his food into his mouth, as the rest of the group yammered on about their various trips, some of them diving straight into the seediest strip clubs they had found, getting themselves in all kinds of trouble, the others balancing it out with stories from their hometowns. The army had become an escape for him in the early years, but it developed into his second family.

“How ’bout you, Gallagher? Get into any pickles on your trip home?” Sgt. Singh asked, turning the focus on him.

“Nah, kept my nose clean.” He said, not wanting to delve too far into his chaos. “No tittie bars for me.”

“You’re not missing out on much.” Sgt. Ortiz chuckled, squeezing Ian’s thigh under the table. “Not enough sausage in those joints.”

He tensed at the touch; his discontentment not as subtle as he intended. Ortiz pulled his hand away, hurt by the gesture. He wanted to say something, but it wasn’t the right company for that kind of conversation, and he had a tough enough time focusing on his plate with all the noise and distraction.

“You okay, Gallagher?” Singh asked. A specialist in many things, including body language, apparently.

“Yeah, I’m all good. Feelin’ a little tired, I guess.”

“Still, eh?” He asked, with worry etched on his face. “You been to see a doctor since you got back?”

Ian shrugged, wanting to avoid the prodding altogether. “No need. I’ll be better once we’re back to work.”

The chatter picked back up with ease, the group bantering back and forth about who would start strong, and who would have to play catch up after their time off. Ian scraped his plate clean, deciding against going back for dessert. When he slid his chair back to stand up, Sgt. Ortiz mumbled under his breath loud enough that only Ian heard him.

“You gonna do me like that?”

Ian jutted out his chin, motioning to the doors. The disheartened soldier followed behind, the cool air hitting their faces like the realization that Ian’s heart had always belonged to another man.

“I’m sorry, Emilio. I never meant to hurt you.”

“I don’t understand, I guess. You’re gone for a couple weeks and I’m the dirt on your shoe.”

“It’s not like that. I’m sorry I’m making you feel that way, it’s just—I can’t explain it. Mickey and I have a history.” Ian stammered, leaning against a cement pillar outside the chow hall. “I don’t want to screw it up with him again.”

Emilio scoffed, kicking at a stray rock, and sending it recoiling off a nearby blockade. “You told me all that already. You think I haven’t been listening?”

“I think you’ve been listening to the parts you want to hear.” Ian stated, too tired to beat around the bush. “I told you I didn’t want strings attached. I was never looking for a boyfriend.”

“Until you ran home and found one.”

Ian noticed a headache beginning to throb behind his eyes. “This is what I was trying to avoid.”

“Look, it’s no problem. I get it. I’m not good enough for—”

“Emilio—”

“—Nah, tell it like it is, Ian. I’m not enough. I’m not what you want.”

Ian ran a hand across his face, trying to self soothe. He didn’t know how to communicate in a situation like the one he was in, and he wanted to bail. He had to stop running.

“You’re a great guy. I mean it. But if you want the truth, _no_. You’re not the right one for me. It doesn’t mean you’re not good enough. I’ve never been available like that to anyone else.”

“You think he’s the one?” Emilio asked, a hint of hope in his voice that maybe Ian would say no.

“I think if there is such a thing, he fits the bill for me.”

They stood together in silence, neither one wanting to be the first to walk away. He never intended to hurt the people he cared about, and over time, he had grown to care for Emilio. It was impossible not to, as for the rest of their platoon. They’d experienced things that most people did not understand.

“I hope it works out for you.” He murmured, closing the gap between them, and placing a soft kiss to Ian’s cheek. “It’s been fun.”

Ian watched him walk away, disappearing across the grounds and into the barracks. Scanning through the photos of Mickey’s apartment, he wondered what life would be like if this part disappeared. He worried that his involvement in the army would somehow tear them apart, and the thought was unbearable. He wanted to be _Ian and Mickey_ again.

**_Hey Mick, is it still a bad time to call?_ **

His phone rang.

“What’s up, Red? You okay?”

He sighed, every ounce of pain evaporating from his tired muscles.

“I am now.”


	7. A Garden for You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their lives, apart and together.

Fiona ran her hands along a seamless drywall patch, impressed by Mickey’s steady workmanship. The foyer of her building had transformed in just three weeks. It went from borderline dilapidated to shabby chic. It motivated her to invest more into it.

She knocked on his door, shaking her head at the doormat. _IF YOU’RE PIZZA, AMAZON, OR RYAN GOSLING I’M HOME._ No way he bought that for himself.

“What?” He barked, wiping beads of sweat from his forehead with his tattered shirt, covered with drywall putty.

“Ryan Gosling? Didn’t take you for the pretty boy type.”

His eyes fell at their feet, knowing full well what idiot dropped such a gem at his dwelling. “Have you even _seen_ Ian?”

“Yeah, I guess he is a pretty boy, huh?” Fiona said, beaming with sisterly pride. “Iggy?”

“Must be. That fuckhead keeps droppin’ off all the stupid shit he finds at that corny gift shop under the L.”

“He’s excited for you. It’s not every day he gets to watch his siblings move up in the world.”

“This an inspection? ‘Cause I’ve got my hands full right now. If you’re not here to judge my parenting skills, can we wrap it up?” He grumbled, wincing at Yevgeny’s screeching wails coming from the somewhere in the apartment.

His petulant attitude didn’t phase her anymore. She’d developed a certain fondness for it. “Not an inspection. I came to tell you we’ve closed the case.”

He let out a breath of relief, his posture relaxing. “Wanna come in?”

\----------

They sat together in the living room, Yevgeny stumbling down the hall, snuffling with a teddy bear clutched in his arms. He climbed onto Fiona’s lap, her slow rocking movements calming him.

“Svetlana?”

Mickey nodded. “Yep. Kid hasn’t stopped all morning. I’ve tried everything.”

She stroked his little blonde hair, her heart cracking inside her chest like dried clay. “Ian used to do this when Monica would leave. Lip and I would bend over backwards trying to cheer him up. It takes time, but he’ll get there. He’ll be okay.”

The advice wasn’t ground breaking, but she understood the sting of abandonment. She admired Mickey for what he had taken on, and all he was accomplishing. It was no simple task having to raise children alone.

“Is it cool if I paint Yev’s room?” He asked, his question unfolding as a palpable distraction.

“No problem. That sounds great—what colour?”

“Green. It’s his favourite.”

“Awesome. Want me to send Lip over? He’s decent with a roller.”

He grinned, stretching his arm out when his son reached for his finger, squeezing it tight. “Nah. We got it covered.”

“I wanted to ask—are things goin’ okay with you and Ian?”

Mickey’s walls shot back up around him, invisible bricks laying thick between them. “Ain’t that outta your pay grade?”

Fiona tilted her head, her determined eyes challenging each brick, disintegrating them with remarkable force. “You thought it was bad when judging you was my job? Wait ‘till it’s a family obligation.”

“Things are fine.” He sniffed, sauntering into the kitchen to whip up an impromptu snack for Yevgeny. Mickey fed the kid a mere twenty minutes before Fiona showed up, but he needed to keep his hands occupied.

“Ian seem a little off to you?”

The question took him by surprise. Ian differed from the person he was when they were younger, no doubt about it, but he shrugged it off as personal growth and environment. Late nights in front of his stolen laptop told him all he needed to know about the transformation a person experiences, moving through the army machine. The redhead had been a little high strung, and full of energy. Mickey preferred it to the version of him that seemed destitute, and down in the dumps.

“Not really. Why?”

She handed Yevgeny a Hot Wheels car from her bag, the little boy grinning ear to ear before scurrying back to his room. “I’m worried about him. He seemed off balance when he was here, kinda temperamental y’know?”

“Coming back from war got anything to do with that?”

“I thought so at first.” She explained, moving into the kitchen to catch his attention. “But he called Lip late other night, rambling about some idea he had to start his own business.”

“So what? A guy can’t be an entrepreneur in this shithole?”

“He gets up at five in the morning. Lip had to convince him to hang up the phone after forty-five minutes. I don’t think he slept.”

Mickey gnawed at the inside of his lip, scraping cubes of watermelon onto a plate. “I’ve noticed that too.”

“What? Staying up late?”

“Yeah.”

She grabbed a piece of fruit, plopping it into her mouth. “I’m worried that it might be bipolar disease, like our mom.”

His stomach tensed, a wave of nausea spilling from his head to his toes. “Bi-what?”

“Manic depression. High highs, followed by low lows, over and over again.”

He took the plate to Yevgeny, going against their water only in the bedroom rule. When he came back out, Fiona looked like she’d seen a ghost, and it punched his nausea straight into a fit of panic.

“So what’re you sayin’? He’s sick?” Mickey asked, desperate for a cigarette. “He gotta rest until he’s better or something?”

She shook her head, fussing with a lonely thread on her purse. “He’d need treatment—medication. Antipsychotics, shit like that.”

“Look, he’s just tryin’ to get a grip on everything. I read that it can be a struggle for these guys, comin’ back from deployment. He’s just gotta get reintegrated.”

“Probably.” She sighed. “Can you call me if something comes up?”

“Of course.”

\----------

Mickey hauled the last heavy box into the storage room, Linda’s deliveries getting more cumbersome with the recent increase in business. The nicer the neighborhood got, the more yuppies filled the place, demanding stupid shit like organic oats and almond milk. He wiped his hands on his pants, collapsing on a dusty chair, indulging in a much needed smoke break.

He checked his phone, a habit that had only expanded since the redhead came marching back into his world. A message from Ian was like a dose of dopamine, the odd goofy selfie, or photo of the base keeping him chock-full of anticipation.

_**Wanna come help me inspect some Humvees today?** _

The image of Ian maintaining and repairing army vehicles turned him on. When the redhead sent him a short video in the armoured vehicle, his combat uniform contrasting with his hair and his shit-eating grin, he wanted to reach through the phone and grab him.

_**Fuck yeah. Beats the hell outta stocking cartons of gourmet mac ‘n’ cheese.** _

They hadn’t talked about their relationship much in the weeks since Ian left for base. They flirted back and forth here and there, sticking to innocent conversations about their day-to-day lives. Sometimes when Ian would call, they’d sit together and watch a movie, listening to each other breathe, and cracking jokes about the shitty acting and predictable scenes. They were learning to be friends again. They fumbled over their words, the last moments of each conversation becoming more awkward as unspoken words built to the brink.

_**Yevgeny is going to love it, Mick. We’ve got some cool shit in the motor pool.** _

Mickey shook his head, smoke billowing from his little contented huffs of breath. Ian was about as subtle as a forest fire, dropping hints about their upcoming visit at an almost obsessive level. Their plans hadn’t changed, but it seemed like Ian was insecure about it, like Mickey was liable to pull the plug at any moment.

_**Sounds awesome, man. Look forward to it.** _

He scratched at the edge of a strip of tape, tearing it off a box and exposing some snacks he recognized. He and his brothers used to steal from the Kash and Grab as if their family had a running tab. Their profit was miraculous now that theft was down. His paychecks were still pitiful, but she paid him on time, and she sent him home with food on the regular. It was generous, since he’d been saving up for a car and could use all the help he could get.

_**Any chance you’d wanna bring Iggy?** _

Sure, he and Ian weren’t boyfriends, but bringing his cock blocking brother along would be some next level friend zone shit.

_**The fuck for?** _

The response made his mouth go dry.

_**Our date.** _

Date? He swallowed hard, flicking his cigarette out the back door. A date meant coming out to a bunch of strangers on some level, and it made him nervous.

_**You want me to bring my brother so he can babysit? What kinda date are we talking about? I’m not up for some fruity dinner or whatever.** _

He read his text twice, wishing he could take it back. The last thing he wanted to do was disappoint Ian or hurt his feelings.

_**Gotta trust me on this one.** _

“Hey Casanova, get your ass back to work.” Linda ordered, handing him a chai tea frappe. “Drink this first.”

“Why?”

“I’m thinking of getting a machine in here that makes ’em. I want your opinion.”

“I don’t have to drink it to give you my opinion—you’re gonna attract every hipster within a fifty-mile radius.”

She frowned at his impertinence, slapping him on the shoulder. “Drink.”

He catered to his tenacious boss, sucking the beverage through a colourful straw, crossing his legs like a haughty food critic, examining it. “Set up a bin of beanies by the door, and you’re golden.”

“You’re a shit.”

“And you’re contributing to the gentrification of our beloved neighborhood, one ridiculous blended drink at a time.”

“Ridiculous, but delicious, right?”

“Tastes like urban renewal.”

Linda snatched his cup, sticking her tongue out. “Well now that I’ve got your sarcastic stamp of approval—”

“Hey—give that back!”

“Nope. You’re _too cool_ for my innovative ideas.”

“If I tell you I love it, will you let me have my damn drink back?”

“Totally.”

“I _love_ your modern, ground-breaking vision of chai tea, Linda. You are a one stop shop pioneer.” He drawled, feigning admiration by bowing to the queen of cold beverages.

Her eyebrow quirked, handing him back his cup before sauntering off. “That’s more like it, brat.”

He guzzled at his drink, clutching his head when a brain freeze throbbed at his temples. It was tastier than he’d given her credit for. She wasn’t around to razz him for it, or so he thought. He almost jumped out of his skin when her voice boomed over the speakers.

“Guess it’s not so bad, huh?”

\----------

Mickey checked his phone one more time, before sliding his earbuds in and cranking his tunes. His walk home from work was about the only time he got to himself, his introverted ass needing some serious decompressing. Rich bass pumped into his ears, the lyrics taking him on a journey away from the Southside, and away from his reality.

He spent so much of his free time worrying.

Endless threats plagued Yevgeny and Ian. He worried about would happen if Svetlana came back. Anxiety rented too much space in his mind about his dad getting out of prison, even though he caught a case that slapped a hefty sentence on his back. He had limited time to focus on himself, and whether he was ready to venture out of the closet or not.

He skipped the next song, moving into something heavier, goosebumps trailing his skin. Good music did that to him, gave him chills. Mickey wondered if it happened to anyone else. He glanced down at the hairs standing up on his arms, and it reminded him of the night he snuck his way into Boys Town.

Years into his marriage to Svetlana was the first time they’d attempted a sexual relationship. She dropped to her knees in the kitchen, resulting in an uncomfortable argument about his inability to _keep it up_ , followed by her damaged ego stomping out the door. The second attempt occured during a night he was lonely, thoughts of Ian burning him from the inside out. She massaged his shoulders, working her way around his body, sliding onto his lap on the couch. He wouldn’t let her kiss him, he never had, but it didn’t stop her from trying.

In a moment of weakness, he gave in. After three seconds, he pulled away in repulsion. He couldn’t do it. His body rejected her, but so did his mind. She sulked in bed, angry and miserable, and he tucked his tail to the only place he could think of that might bring him satisfaction. Something that would help him regain some of his manhood.

He watched the dancers work their bodies, some of them attractive enough to pique his interest, but none giving him the thrill he had experienced with Ian. He settled on a redhead with a similar build, figuring if he could convince himself for long enough, he’d find some relief. It was a mediocre romp in the stall, but it far outweighed the nightmare waiting for him at home. He was the giver, making sure that if they ever caught him, he’d go down as a dominant partner. It shouldn’t matter, but it did. He thought he’d have to endure a less brutal beating from Terry if he knew that _at least_ his son wasn’t taking it.

He missed the comfort, but more than that, he missed the chemistry. It was easy being with Ian. He wanted that again. Fear weighed on his mind, but it lightened with each passing day. He wasn’t ready to wrap a rainbow flag around himself and prance down the street on a float, but if Ian needed more, he would try.

_**How’d your shift go?** _

He glanced at the time on his phone, raking his teeth across his bottom lip. Ian was paying close attention to his schedule.

_**Linda’s revamping the place with a brand spankin’ new frappuccino machine. Some punk tried to take off with a pocket full of chocolate. I need a better job.** _

Mickey leaned against a tree outside his building, a long drag of nicotine smoldering in his lungs.

_**I want you so badly, Mickey.** _

He wasn’t sure if the redhead was poking fun at him, but he forgot how to breathe.

_**You fucking with me?** _

The speed of his response spoke volumes.

_**No. I can’t get you outta my head. I spent more time trying to stop thinking about you than accomplishing anything. I know I promised to take it slow, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t dying to kiss you. Is that okay?** _

Mickey wiped his palms against his denim jacket, a shaky hand vibrating his cigarette.

_**That depends. You gonna buy me flowers first?** _

He stomped his cigarette out, grinning to himself. Ian Gallagher wanted to kiss him. His spirit lifted.

_**I’ll buy you a whole damn botanical garden, if that’s what it takes.** _

Mickey was prepared to hold him to it. 


	8. Movie Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blood isn't always thicker than water, not in a hypothetical sense anyhow.

Yevgeny poked at a piece of spinach on his plate, sliding it through tangy salad dressing before deciding to drop it to the floor and out of sight. Iggy glanced over his shoulder in Mickey’s direction, checking to see if his nephew had been discreet enough in his vegetable disposal. Something distracted Mickey from the crime. A stack of new bills, ones he hadn’t needed to worry about before moving out on his own. Iggy leaned in to wipe the mess up with a paper towel, giving the boy a playful glare.

Iggy enjoyed looking after the kid for Mickey. It never seemed like babysitting. He had more patience than his younger brother, though he wasn’t an inadequate father by any means. Iggy fretted less about the small things, likely because the weight on his shoulders was much lighter than his brothers, and he maintained a consistent high throughout the day to take the edge off.

He didn’t enjoy, however, living at the Milkovich house alone. It helped to have Yevgeny around while his dad had to work, but when he dropped him off he lingered longer than he should, and sometimes even crashing on the couch. Mickey didn’t seem to mind, so he assumed it might have been tough for him to be alone too. They way they grew up was a disaster but didn’t change the fact that they were all close, codependent.

“I need another job.” Mickey said, slumping down on the chair next to Iggy with a huff. “Even with a rent cut, we’re gonna have to start payin’ for shit with wooden nickels.”

Iggy nodded, giving Yevgeny a pat on his back for clearing his entire plate, before sending the boy off to pick out his pajamas. “Linda ain’t paying you a livin’ wage?”

“She pays me what any other place would pay me. I don’t think anyone is making a living wage around here. It’s depressing as shit.”

“You short on your bills? I’m goin’ on a run with our cousins soon, I can help you out, bro.”

Mickey cringed, pressing the palms of his hands against his eyes. “We’re covered, but not by much. This isn’t somethin’ I’m gonna be able to borrow my way out of. I need a part-time job or some shit.”

“What about that mook dad knows from high school? He offered me a job tarring roofs a few months back. He might still have a spot open.”

“Can’t, man. Needs to be something I can do at night after work.”

Iggy grabbed a beer from the fridge, twisting off the cap and sending it sailing across the kitchen into the garbage bin. “You could shake your ass at that dive in Boystown. Dad used to get flyers for that place all the time. Fuckin’ hilarious.”

“You want me whippin’ my dick out for money?” Mickey scoffed, taking a swig of beer before belching at his brother.

“Why not? Pays better than anythin’ you’re gonna find that isn’t selling dope or runnin’ guns.”

“Drink your fuckin’ beer, Iceberg Slim.”

Iggy cackled, tapping the neck of his bottle against Mickey’s. “I’d make an exceptional pimp though, you gotta admit.”

\----------

Mickey read Yevgeny a bedtime story, peeking down to see that the boy had fallen asleep before he’d reached the end of the book. He didn’t want to take any chances, finishing the fable before tucking the book away. He snuggled deeper into the bed, pulling the blankets over them both. The nights Iggy crashed on the couch made it easier to sleep in his own bed, but when it was just the two of them in the apartment, he found himself prone to cuddling up next to his kid. He mused to himself that it was a confusing example, given that he’d worked so hard to help Yevgeny build confidence in sleeping in his own room, but to hell with it. If he had a parent who cared about him enough to do the same when he was a kid, maybe he wouldn’t have grown up to be so full of anxiety.

He looked up at the plastic glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling, making a mental pros and cons list about working as an exotic dancer. The cons far outweighed the pros within about a minute and a half, but they needed the money. His bills wouldn’t fall behind, but at the rate he was going, they’d have to turn their home into a sustainable living food source if they wanted to eat. If being broke was a skill set, he’d be able to slap it on his resume with confidence, but he didn’t want to stay that way forever. Yevgeny deserved better, and with Ian edging back into his life, he wanted to rise to the occasion.

He tossed and turned for the better part of an hour, deciding to take his pent up energy elsewhere before he wound up waking his son. Sprawled out on the couch, he grabbed the remote, flipping through the basic cable channels, settling on a documentary about penguins. They were cute little fuckers, and some penguin species mated for life, which made Mickey smile.

_**Did you know penguins mated for life? Like straight up, no interest in variety? Crazy shit.** _

He added a penguin emoji for effect, sweating a little. His belly warmed, like he’d swallowed a mouthful of lava cake when his phone buzzed.

_**Oh yeah? That’s cute. Trying to tell me something?** _

Turning down the volume on the TV when he heard a rustle from Yevgeny’s room, he fired back a response.

_**Fuck off is what I’m trying to tell you.** _

He could almost hear Ian’s laughter in his head, a sound so pleasant he wished he’d appreciated it more when they were kids.

_**I could be a penguin if that’s what you’re after.** _

He typed out half a dozen sardonic responses, deleting them all. It was the adorable flightless fluffs on the screen making him soft.

_**If you’re a bird, I’m a bird.** _

It didn’t stop him from grimacing, but if it was one thing he had learned about change, it’s that it never happened in a comfort zone.

_**The Notebook? I get to be Allie. Gingers gotta represent, ya know?** _

Mickey muffled his laughter into a cushion that smelled way too much like his brother, and not enough like Ian.

_**I ain’t building you a fuckin’ house.** _

Who was he kidding? He’d build Ian a house every other day if it made him smile.

_**But Mickey, I need a place to watch the sunset and drink my tea. What about my pretty paintings?!** _

His cheeks hurt.

_**Gay.** _

His phone rang, and he ignored it. He massaged his sore cheeks with his fingers, watching the call go to voicemail, a notification popping up. He held the phone to his ear, listening to a voice he thought he would have to live without.

_I notice you’re ignoring me on purpose, but guess what? I don’t even care because in three days I get to see you and I’m gonna send you home with dizzy knees, and the biggest ever crush on me. You just wait._

Mickey had to pace the living room to manage his heart rate. Ian Gallagher was the yin to his yang, no doubt about it.

\----------

Against his better judgment, he nabbed a part-time gig at Fairy Tale, the manager determining that Mickey was better suited as a bartender. He possessed the body for the job, having spent the past year working out more than he ever had, but after he threatened to crack a dude’s head on the pavement when he got too close, it was obvious he wasn’t the seductive type.

The hours were steady, and the tips were almost as good as the ones he’d get grinding on the platforms, so with brief hesitation he accepted the position. He’d never mixed drinks before, a white lie he let slip when he realized it wasn’t only an asset, but a requirement. It was a minor detail that he planned to iron out with a week of online tutorials and videos. He figured out how to identify almost any drug under the sun, with his eyes closed. Mixology couldn’t be that difficult. Hell, they even had apps for it.

“I got the job.” Mickey mumbled through the phone, Iggy cheering in his ear on the other end.

“Right on, Flashdance. You gonna tell your boyfriend?”

“ _Fuck no_ , and I’m not dancin’. They needed a bartender.”

Iggy barked out a laugh. “Blacking out drunk doesn’t count, bro. How did you swing that?”

“Told ‘em I knew my way around the bar.”

“Can I _please_ come watch you fuck it all up? You’re gonna have to mix drinks for a bunch of catty homos, you realize that, right?”

Mickey rolled his eyes, but it didn’t hide the fact that he was nervous. “You gotta watch the kid, so no, you can’t fuckin’ come, but if you’re ever in the mood to slap your sack against some horny queen’s ass cheeks, I might getcha a discount.”

“Family discounts? Sweet.” Iggy wheezed, coughing up a lung on what Mickey could only assume was a hit from his bong.

“Any chance you know how to mix drinks?”

“No clue, but Fiona did that shit for a while, why don’t you call her? I’m sure she wants to find out all about your new job.” His sarcasm dripped through the phone.

“I guess. I gotta go over there anyway, Debbie’s lookin’ after Yev.”

Iggy sniffed with sudden reticence. “Look, I see you’re workin’ like a dog, but I think you gotta spend more time with him. He misses you.”

Mickey’s insides twisted. It was on his mind, how little time he had to be with Yevgeny. It was a double-edged sword. He tried his best, but it wasn’t enough, judging by his recent behavior.

“Alright. You comin’ by later or what?”

“Nah, I gotta pack my bags for our big trip, remember?” Iggy teased, receptive to joining him in Missouri.

“Whatever, shitbag. Don’t go too hard on Mary Jane, I need you to be coherent tomorrow.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

\----------

The Gallagher residence was chaotic as usual, music pumping in the backyard, and drifting through the house. They set up their pool a month too early, the Spring nights getting warmer but not enough to need an above ground. It didn’t stop them from dragging a cooler of drinks outside, splashing around in their shorts and bikinis, pissing off all their neighbors with their flailing and shouting.

He couldn’t help but grin at their carefree repartee, each face accented by happy crinkles at the corners of their eyes. His blonde little boy splashed in the middle, giggling as Lip tossed him over to Fiona, the siblings making a game of it. Yevgeny relished his time with Ian’s family. They treated him like he was one of them, and sometimes when it got quiet, he wondered if Yevgeny would be better off there.

Iggy couldn’t pour piss out of a boot with instructions written on the heel, but he had a moral sense about him with their family, and he was an outstanding uncle. Mickey understood that he wasn’t there for the boy as much as he wanted to be, as much as he needed. He loved Yevgeny, that wasn’t even a question, but he worried that being around him would damage him more than his absence. It magnified his doubts when he watched how the Gallaghers took care of him.

“Hey kiddo, we gotta get goin’.” Mickey announced his arrival, eliciting cheerful greetings from the bunch.

“I was thinking,” Debbie said, pulling out of the pool and wrapping a towel around herself, her goosebumps an indicator it was still way too early for outdoor swimming. “what if Yevy spends the night tonight? We’re gonna do a movie and snacks thing.”

He glanced at his son, his wide eyes pleading for permission to stay. “I dunno—he doesn’t have any of his stuff.”

“Go grab it then.” Lip suggested. He was the next one to drag himself out of the water, teeth chattering. “You need a night to yourself, man. You never get a break.”

“I don’t need a break.” Mickey said. He never wanted Yevgeny to feel like a burden. “I was thinkin’ I need to spend more time with the kid.”

Lip pulled out a smoke, offering him one too. “Okay, so stick around. Fiona grabbed way too much food; we need an extra mouth.”

“Why does everything you say have to come out weird?” Fiona razzed, following suit, and urging the rest of them to grab a towel before hypothermia kicked in. “We’ve got plenty of room, Mickey. You can crash in Ian’s old bed.”

His breath hitched. There was something about sleeping in the redhead’s bedroom that made his heart flutter. “I don’t wanna like—barge in on your movie night or whatever.”

“Mi casa es su casa—and all that.” Liam shivered, kneeling to let Yevgeny hop up in a piggyback. “Besides, you don’t wanna miss a Gallagher movie shindig. We don’t mess around.”

He sat on the wooden steps after the group went inside, pondering how he got so lucky. His own family didn’t seem to have any interest in maintaining a relationship with him, never mind spending any meaningful time together. It was another world, and one he’d need time to adapt to. Maybe he didn’t have to live a lonely life anymore.

_**Guess who’s sleepin’ in your old bed tonight?** _

Ian responded almost as soon as he had sent the message out.

_**If it’s Carl, tell him I’ll murder him if he wacks off in my blanket. That fucker used to rock the bunkbeds so hard the house shook.** _

Mickey laughed with his entire diaphragm.

_**Gross. But you’re in luck, I think he’ll be shakin’ his girlfriend’s bed tonight. It’s me. I’m crashing at your sister’s place. Some movie night thing.** _

He took a pull from his cigarette, worried that Ian might be uncomfortable with it all.

_**Awww what!? I’m gonna miss movie night? Fuck Uncle Sam and the tank he rode in on. Also, I’m not gonna lie, it’s turning me on thinking of you in my bed. I might’ve shaken it a time or two to thoughts of you.** _

_**Sorry if that was too much.** _

It was a miracle he hadn’t swallowed his smoke.

_**Oh, really? You got me all fucked up, Gallagher. Kinda wish you weren’t so far away right now.** _

Lip poked his head out the door, asking if he wanted a beer or some wacky blended fruit drink Debbie was whipping together in the blender. He settled for a beer, waiting until Lip was back in the house before reading Ian’s message.

_**Why’s that? And please give me details. It’s for science.** _

He wasn’t giving in.

_**Flowers, remember? I like lilies best, but I’m cool with whatever.** _

His laughter mingled with the ruckus inside the house.

_**Mickey, the Amazon Rainforest is yours okay? The whole thing. All yours. I’ll get the word out, the army can help me lock it all down.** _

How did he make it so many years without that goofball in his life?

_**I’ll believe it when I see it, Firecrotch.** _

****


	9. Special Delivery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey receives a surprising job opportunity. Ian battles his mind, and makes a bold move.

Ian pulled the covers up over his face, grumbling at the window he had forgotten to close. Rain permeated his room with damp coldness, the faint sound of tires through puddles signaling life outside. He peered out at his alarm clock, a woeful groan in his chest at the harsh lights flashing at him to get out of bed. His body ached, but his mind—that seemed to be the real culprit.

Ian stumbled into the kitchen, dusting off his coffee pot, rummaging through his cupboards for anything that resembled caffeine. He’d indulge during breakfast chow, but recent mornings called for a boost before he left the barracks. Ian rubbed his eyes, moving his hands to knead the back of his neck. He hadn’t shirked his fitness more than a day during his most recent tour, and while he eased up on the runs during his time off, he had lost none of his gains.

Twisting the shower handle, he stepped into scalding water, the steam prickling his skin. His head spun, but the heat loosened the tightness throughout his body, begging him to crawl back under his blankets for another dose of dreams and rest.

Mental health didn’t come up in conversation often. On the rare occasion that they’d all get drunk together, turning the barracks into a frat house, it became a hot topic. Tales of soldiers losing their shit after their conscience set their flashbacks into full motion, or an officer getting discharged for a late diagnosis, almost equated to sharing horror stories around the campfire. The most common fear was PTSD, and how fast a man of combat would deteriorate. Demons of all shapes and sizes hid under their beds.

Ian wasn’t naïve. He was aware of his genetics, and the predisposition for mental illness weaving through his family tree. It was bad enough growing up in a home where neglect was on the menu more often than a nutritional meal. Having a parent with a diagnosed mood disorder, the other parent being a raging alcoholic, sat at the forefront of his mind. Every once in a while, he’d look at himself in the mirror, and wonder. Could he be sick like Monica? After too many shots of the hard stuff, could he be sick like Frank?

Monica was nuts. She’d put them through a lifetime’s worth of dread, and he was certain he’d never be able to cope with being anything like her.

The army wasn’t just an option for many of them. It was the only reasonable path that led away from a life of unbelievable misery and hopelessness. For some, the only family they’d ever had existed inside the confines of the military. Being told you were no longer strong enough, or capable enough to be a soldier was a very real, motivating fear. The army would like to believe that their combatants were all clear in the health department, but much of the time the mental struggles remained hidden until they became too disruptive. The army trained them to execute a mission and shoot straight to kill the enemy, but there wasn’t enough training in the universe to prepare them for the tragedy overseas, and the stigma back home.

\----------

Their army base was more like a town. Beyond the maintenance bay where Ian spent most of his time working in the motor pool, there were all kinds of modern shops and amenities. He found comfort in the library more than anywhere else, but there were parks, fast-food joints, gyms, movie theatres, and even a liquor store or two. They’d shut down certain roads for an hour each morning, to allow the soldiers a safe place to check off their physical fitness for the day, before moving on to their work assignments, but aside from that everything appeared average. They were in the army, not a prison camp.

Ian felt like there were cement blocks attached to his calves, but running in such a large unit helped push the momentum forward. He let his eyes wander to the houses lining the streets, larger ones for married soldiers of a high rank, and smaller, less appealing ones for the rest. Single soldiers could live off base under certain circumstances, but it was almost impossible to have it approved. It gave him a jolt of adrenaline to imagine himself living in one of those beautiful, landscaped homes, and the lifestyle that would come along with it. He chuckled to himself at the thought of Mickey being a military wife.

“Nice to see you smile.” Sgt. Singh panted through the loud repetition of many feet hitting pavement. “What’s going on in that orange head of yours?”

Ian grinned, glancing over at him for a beat before resetting his focus on the group. “Just thinkin’ about what it would be like to move outta the barracks.”

“It’s the same as living in the barracks, only there’s a spouse around every corner to nag you.” He joked, sweat pouring down his face. “What’s got your sights set on the big houses?”

“Nothing.” He lied, spotting Emilio several rows up and lowering his voice. “It would just be nice, I guess, having a family to come home to.”

Sgt. Singh peered through the cavalry of sweaty shouldered troops, noticing Sgt. Ortiz who had against all formation rules, glanced back at Ian. “Got a family in mind?”

He shook his head. “Not around here, that’s for sure.”

“Back home?”

“I hope so.” Ian said, perspiration soaking through his black and gold PT uniform, which was a glorified short-sleeve shirt and cotton shorts. “If I tell you something, you gotta promise to keep it a secret.”

“You know I got your back, brother. What’s up?”

His lungs stung, a painful stitch building somewhere under his ribs. “Mickey’s coming to visit.”

“No shit, eh? That’s wicked Gallagher. Why keep it a secret? The guys wanna meet him.”

“He’s not—out.”

Sgt. Singh didn’t appear to have a sexually fluid bone in his body, but he had always handled the subject with reverence, something Ian appreciated. “Nothin’ wrong with that, right? He doesn’t have to be out if he’s not ready.”

“How does that work, though?” Ian asked, swiping his palms across his chest before checking the stats on his Fitbit. “Long distance is tough enough. I’m gonna fuck it all up tryin’ to keep it on the DL.”

“Can’t speak from experience, but I’d say just keep respect on the table, and go from there.”

“I respect him.”

“Good. Then it won’t be such a problem keeping his private shit—y’know, private. It doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks.” He explained, gesturing around them with a wink. “Especially these dumbasses.”

Ian let his words ruminate, his opinion shaking up everything he believed. He wasn’t fortunate to grow up gay on the Southside, but he had it far better than Mickey did. His father was too drunk to care. Meanwhile Mickey’s was hell bent on doing whatever it took, murder included, to prevent it. It was different, and Sgt. Singh was right, there was a distinction. If it were anyone else, he’d be quick to walk away. It hurt being involved with people who wanted to keep him a secret. But Mickey wasn’t anyone else, he was everything Ian wanted, and that would come with sacrifice.

\----------

Mickey woke up to flowers. _So many flowers_.

Fiona was collecting overdue rent from some residents at the building when a courier pulled up with a truck full of floral arrangements. She watched with wide eyes as the man marched up and down the stairs, laying each bouquet at his doorstep. Mickey felt a familiar flip flop in his stomach, the courier turning a vivid shade of red from the exertion. He considered offering to help bring the outlandish delivery upstairs, but he was undecided about whether he wanted to accept them. Not only was the deed over the top, and corny as shit, it also worried him that after the flowers made it through the door, there may not be space for furniture anymore.

He snatched his phone from the coffee table, moving back to the doorway to pity the man still running laps. He knew Ian was working, but this was a conversation only suitable for Facetime.

“Good morning, Mickey.”

“No, it’s not a good fuckin’ morning. How many funerals did you have to rob to pull this off?”

The redhead’s laughter was infectious. “Funerals? What kinda guy do you take me for?”

“A stupid one.” Mickey blurted, attempting to hide his smile by turning the camera around, and giving Ian a front-row seat to the forest in his hallway. “What the fuck!”

“You said you liked lilies, right?” Ian asked, his insouciant tone making Mickey want to throw his phone across the room.

“You’re really goin’ for it, huh?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Buying flowers for a guy you like is an ordinary display of affection.”

“Ian, the dude delivering all this shit is having a coronary event. He’s gonna drop from a heart attack at any moment, and what the fuck am I supposed to do with _that_?”

“You’re supposed to take your flowers inside, he has insurance, he’ll be fine.”

Mickey switched the camera back to his face, raking his teeth along his bottom lip. “It looks like a Monet painting shit all over your sister’s building—did you know she was here today?”

“No idea. _Hey, Fiona_!”

Her voice carried from somewhere down below. “Ian Clayton Gallagher, I am holdin’ you responsible for whatever woodland creatures move in here!”

Ian’s Cheshire cat grin was almost too much. “You’re ridiculous, man.”

“Do you like ‘em?”

He rubbed his thumb across his browbone, each arrangement full of colour, the fresh fragrance cancelling out the musty smell that encompassed the hallway. “They’re ridiculous.”

“ _Do-you-like-them_?” Ian reiterated, crouching behind a military vehicle to give them some privacy, his smile still radiating through the phone.

“Yeah.”

“Good. I gotta go, but hey—is anyone gonna be home tonight?”

“Yes. Why?”

“No reason.”

“Ian—”

“You might wanna make a little more room in your place.” The redhead said, biting his lip. “I could only get one kind of lily at this place.”

The call ended before Mickey had the chance to protest. Fiona scrambled her way to the top of the stairs, smirking at the absolute mess they now had to organize.

“You just _had_ to show up with that orange juice, didn’t you?” She giggled, leaning down to grab a basket full of orchids, hauling them into his apartment.

“Fuck off.” He mumbled, taking a moment to smell the petals in his arms, powdery pollen staining the tip of his nose. “Your brother’s an idiot.”

“You just wait.” She retorted, wiping his nose with her sleeve, making him scrunch his face in annoyance. “He doesn’t tell me _everything_ , but lemme just say, he’s got some interesting things planned for your trip.”

“What things?” He snapped. “If it’s more flowers, I’m movin’ the fuck to Ireland and changin’ my name.”

“Ireland?” She snorted, sliding an arrangement off to the side to keep for herself. “What is your obsession with redheads?”

“I like fucking carrot tops—like with the freckles, and the pale skin—fuckin’ alien lookin’.”

“I wish I never asked.” She groaned, stacking flowers on his countertop until the sink disappeared. “What time are you leavin’ tomorrow?”

\----------

He borrowed Iggy’s car to haul some flowers to work, giving the place a boost of temporary elegance, and minimizing the jungle in his apartment. His brother teased him when he came over to watch Yevgeny, but he could see a little envy behind the facade, and he understood. Flower deliveries didn’t happen for a Milkovich, not even when they died. He thought about the sentiment behind the elaborate gift on his short voyage to the Kash and Grab. He had a general idea of where their relationship was going, but the process was nerve racking.

In his daydreams of Ian’s return home, he didn’t factor in the reality that he was raising a child, or that Ian was working full time in another State, and not for an average 9-5 job either. He had obligations to the military, and he hadn’t even seen the full spectrum of it yet. He wanted to be optimistic, but it was tough to hold on to expectation when to even touch the redhead, they’d have to plan a trip to do it. It wasn’t the same as when they were living in their crummy neighborhood together.

“Where did all these come from?” Linda asked, leaning forward to sniff a bundle of pink roses.

“Ian.”

“Ian? He delivered flowers to the store?”

“Nope—my place. Figured I’d bring some here, thin the herd a bit.”

She poured herself a cup of coffee. “Big delivery?”

“Huge.”

“That’s adorable. Sounds like the Ian I remember.” Linda said, adjusting the cigarette cabinet. “Mind you—the Ian I remember had also fucked my husband into another realm.”

Mickey hated any mention of Kash. It made his blood boil that a man his age would ever do what he did. Ian shrugged it off, and never wanted to talk about it, but Mickey had a tough time letting it go. “Where is that creep show anyways?”

“In a ditch somewhere, I hope.” She cringed, her anger toward the man far exceeding Mickey’s. “Which reminds me. How would you feel about taking on some more responsibility around here?”

“I already do pretty much everything.” He said, trying to figure out what other tasks he hadn’t already dipped into.

“Exactly.” She nodded, fidgeting with a leaf she’d plucked off a stem. “The thing is, I’m sick of seeing this shithole. I want to spend more time with the boys.”

“What does that have to do with me?”

“Well, I thought for a significant pay raise, you’d help me transition into a less involved position in the store.”

He mulled it over, his first concern being Yevgeny. She wanted to spend more time with her family, but he was already struggling to be there for his. “What are the hours gonna look like? I need to spend more time with Yev.”

“I know.” She said, her steely mahogany eyes softening as she gave him a once over. “You’ll have more freedom to choose your schedule, and I have no problem with you bringing him here—I’ve told you that.”

“Who’s gonna take care of all the regular shit?”

She tapped her fingers on the counter, never one to hedge her bets. She was intimidating but generous at heart. “Hire someone.”

“Can I think about it?”

“Life has prepared me to go down with this ship since day one, so anything less than that is cool with me. Let me know if you have questions.”

He all but collapsed in his chair, contemplating her offer. A pay raise at the store, combined with his new job, could set them on a better trajectory. He might afford to put Yevgeny into soccer, and maybe even a daycare program that let him socialize with kids his own age. He appreciated the help from his brother and the Gallaghers, but he needed to be independent.

Running the same store he fell head over heels for Ian in? Well, that was just a bonus. 


	10. Left, Left, Left, Right, Left

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Testing the unstoppable force paradox, in approximately two thousand words.

Mickey’s most notable road trips included bailing his cousins out of trouble, picking Iggy up from jail or picking Terry up from prison. Vacation was a luxury of the rich, and the most opulent thing Mickey owned was a toothbrush with a tongue scrubber on the back. He ran out to the ATM to withdraw what they left in his account after bills, if for no other reason than to insure no auto payments would come out, leaving him with less than the tight budget he already had.

Iggy was the most innovative person he knew, his ability to go from being strapped for cash to deep pocketed a genuine work of art. If it were not for his older brother, he would have to cancel for financial reasons alone. He had some funds tucked away in his savings, but if he spent it now, he’d never be able to buy them a car. He let that knowledge fester, eating away at his confidence as he rolled up the clothes he didn’t want to wrinkle, packing each item in a suitcase Fiona let him borrow for the weekend.

Mickey had limited his worries to being around Ian again until they were getting ready to leave. As the hours drew closer, a plethora of anxiety ridden scenarios, including but not limited to any interaction with Ian’s army family inundated him. Mickey wondered if they were a bunch of possessive douchebags, or unrelaxable egomaniacs. He wondered how many of them recognized how handsome Ian was, and if Ian noticed them back. His punch first, ask questions later mentality would work against him, but it was daunting trying to imagine fitting in with the kinds of dudes who spent years at a time shooting enemies on four hours sleep in a sandstorm. He didn’t care what those idiots thought, because they were losers in his head already, but he cared a hell of a lot about what Ian thought. This became crystal clear to him, when he packed Yevgeny’s backpack with outfits free of stains, and all his best toys. His son was perfect no matter what he wore, but Mickey wanted to make a good impression, something he hadn’t given two shits about in the past.

“No, don’t toss that one!” Iggy said, pointing to a buffalo plaid shirt Mickey had thrown into the _no_ pile. “Makes him look like a tiny lumberjack.”

“Got holes in it.”

“So?”

“ _So_ , I don’t wanna take Yev on his first vacation in rags.”

Iggy gawked. “You’re tryin’ to impress the Gallagher kid.”

“It’s Ian, and no, I’m not.”

“You are.” He cackled, doubling over when his younger brother sent a clever shot to his kidney. “ _Ouch_ , you fucker.”

“That’s what you get.” Mickey smirked, coughing up a lung when Iggy returned the favour.

“Guess I better not scuff you up too bad, gonna make Captain Freckles think you been screwin’ around.”

“Can’t screw around if you’re not together.”

“That mean Ian’s out there messin’ around with other dudes?”

“Who knows? Not my fuckin’ business, is it?”

Iggy frowned, deep in thought. “I kinda think it is, bro. Unless you guys are just doin’ the friend thing.”

Ian had already clarified that he was not looking for friendship. The murky waters they were treading in would only get murkier if they put off having conversations about their future.

“Guess we’ll figure it out this weekend.” Mickey shrugged, tension creeping up his back. “I’m not in a position to ask him to be faithful and shit.”

“Why the fuck not?” Iggy asked, blurting it out like someone had just slandered the Milkovich name.

“I ain’t a gay icon around here.”

“Hold up, is this about the comin’ out shit?” Mickey’s eyes darted away, so Iggy continued. “Mick, you don’t have to announce that shit to the world, just to lock the dude down. He’s gotta treat you right no matter what.”

“You don’t get it, man. I owe him more than that.”

Iggy shook his head, zipping up Yevgeny’s bag. “The only thing y’all owe each other is the truth. That don’t gotta involve anyone else until you’re comfortable with it.”

They sat on the floor together, little snores floating from Yevgeny’s bed. Mickey looked up to the Gallaghers, almost idolizing them as the family he never had, but he was realizing how lost he’d be without Iggy. His brother had helped pull him through some of his darkest days. There was nobody he trusted more.

“How come you didn’t help dad bury me in the backyard when you found out?” He asked, knowing how easy it would have been to fall into the toxic cycle of pleasing their father.

“You kiddin’ me?” Iggy asked, perplexed.

“Nah, man. Dad fag bashed like it was his religion. What made you change your mind?”

He stared at Mickey, trying to wrap his head around the question. “Didn’t have to change my mind. I never cared about that shit. When I put two and two together, it kinda took me by surprise at first—but I never looked at you different. You’re still Mickey to me, bro. It don’t make you any less of a man, just ‘cause you love one.”

\----------

Fluffy white clouds filtered the sunlight, floating against the shifting winds. Mickey expected that the drive would be long and miserable, but it was over before he knew it. Yevgeny wriggled his body in happy little dance moves, to the music his uncle played on repeat, eating fresh slices of orange before he napped the rest of the way. His son had been a welcomed distraction from his pensiveness, and when he fell asleep, it sent a cage of butterflies flickering through him at the speed of light. He didn’t know what to expect, and he ran through a million and one outcomes in his head, adrenaline buzzing all the way to his toes.

When they pulled up to the civilian entrance, Mickey had all their proper identification sitting in his lap. He checked each piece multiple times, so he wouldn’t end up fumbling in front of the guard. It didn’t stop his pulse from racing when a stream of questions poured through the window, from an expressionless brute, followed by a breakdown of what he needed to know about being a visitor, and what was, under no circumstance, permitted.

“Do you have an escort?” The guard asked, deadpan. 

Mickey leaned over Iggy, trying to hear the man more. “I—what?”

Ian appeared in the nick of time, his grin accenting the apples of his cheeks, which were as red as cayenne pepper from what looked like a sprint across the compound. Heat tingled in the roots of Mickey’s hair, trickling down into his cheeks and across his chest.

“Mickey is mine.” He panted, straightening up and smoothing his hands over his camouflaged army fatigues, before snapping his head back up to correct himself. “He’s my—my guest. Mickey is—well, Yevgeny and Iggy too—they’re all my guests. They’re here to see me.”

The guard broke his blank resolve, the slightest smile quirking up at the corner of his mouth. “No problem, Sgt. Gallagher. Enjoy your visit.”

Mickey heard _Sgt. Gallagher_ and his body decided it was the perfect time to send another flush of heat to his nerve endings, the edges of his ears burning so hot he wished he could hide behind his hair. Alas, he’d decided at the last minute to get a hair cut before they left Chicago, and they buzzed it too short at the sides to do much about his boyish responses.

When Ian slid into the backseat to guide them the rest of the way, Mickey tried to play it cool, pretending to take in the scenery on base.

“How was the drive?” Ian asked, turning to chat up the elated four-year-old beside him, who was staring at him in awe. Mickey had never related to his son more.

“Not bad.” Iggy cut in, shooting his brother a knowing glare. “Cat got your fuckin’ tongue or what?”

“Shut up.” Mickey blurted, a wave of warmth still circuiting along the surface of his skin, threatening to swallow him whole. “Drive was good, man. Thought you were workin’ today.”

Ian leaned between their seats, his scent magnified by the increase in temperature, Mickey’s heart jumping into his throat, making the car infinitesimal.

“I pulled some strings.” Ian said, brushing the tips of his fingers along the back of Mickey’s arm, sending a pulse of nervous energy shooting through his spine. “I’m all yours until Sunday.”

“You don’t get weekends off?” Iggy asked, turning into a nearby parking stall when Ian gestured at the area with his open hand.

“Nah, we don’t get any breaks unless we request ‘em.” Ian explained, unbuckling Yevgeny and helping the boy out of the car, holding him up on his hip and looking at the little blonde head glancing all around, thrilled by his surroundings. “It’s a special occasion for Sergeant Gallagher.”

Mickey noticed Yevgeny’s face light up like a firecracker, his little hands exploring the patches on Ian’s jacket. “I can take him—”

Ian shook his head. “It’s okay, Mick. I got him.”

Mickey ignored the amused grin on his brother’s face, taking time to absorb their surroundings. “This place is enormous, man.”

What looked like a hundred soldiers marched past them, a drill sergeant calling cadence to keep them in line, the group shouting back in unison. It gave Mickey chills, watching their feet and hands move in precise order, their voices rumbling through his chest. Yevgeny clapped and bounced on Ian’s hip, the drill sergeant sending the boy a brief wink before taking the soldiers down the street and out of sight.

“Sorry about that. We do a lot of training here, so it might get a little loud sometimes.” Ian explained, motioning to a building in front of them. “This is where I live.”

Mickey stared at the brick-built edifice, while Iggy used the opportunity to explore the grounds in front of it, puffing on his cigarette. It reminded him of a mix between an orphanage from the 19th century, and a 3 star hotel.

“We allowed in there?” Mickey asked, as a group of soldiers left the building, waving at Ian on their way by.

“Yup. Just can’t spend the night.” Ian confessed, putting Yevgeny down so he could play in the grass with his uncle.

“Where are we sleepin’ then?”

Ian sat down on the curb; his long legs spread wide enough that Mickey’s throat tightened. “I got you guys a room at the motel just outside the gates. Is that okay?”

Mickey was equal parts relieved and disappointed. It took the pressure down a notch, knowing he wouldn’t be sharing a room with Ian while Iggy and Yevgeny were sleeping inches away, though he couldn’t help but acknowledge the jolt of discontent knowing he would not fall asleep wrapped in the redheads arms.

“All good, man. Appreciate that. What do I owe ya?”

Yevgeny rolled around with Iggy in the distance, and Ian slid closer when Mickey joined him on the curb. “You don’t owe me anything.”

His words were heavier than the intended response, and it tugged at Mickey’s heart. He looked around, making sure they were alone, intertwining his fingers with Ian’s, their hands tucked between them. “You don’t gotta do that for us. I don’t mind payin’ for it.”

“I want to.” Ian murmured, massaging Mickey’s hand with the pad of his thumb, gentle circles firing every sense in his body to life. “I’m so happy you’re here.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. It’s all I’ve been thinkin’ about. Thanks for making the drive.”

The mellow breeze picked up Ian’s scent, dancing it around his face in smooth intoxication. Mickey squeezed his hand against calloused, freckled fingers, wondering for a moment what they looked like caressing a gun, among other objects. The redhead turned toward him, hooded eyes fixed on his own, gazing into them as if he were reading every wicked thought. Ian’s tongue darted across his pouted lips in anticipation, leaving glistening moisture on the rosy surface, Mickey mimicked the motion. He glanced around once more, swallowing hard, tipping his head until his tongue could almost taste Ian’s minty breath through parted lips.

“I’m hungry, papa.” Yevgeny exclaimed, Iggy chasing after him, holding his hands up when Mickey shot him a disgruntled glare.

It was a blessing in disguise that Yevgeny interrupted them. Mickey wasn’t sure he’d have the strength to stop if he got even a single sip of Ian’s mouth.

He yanked his hand back when he realized their fingers were still tangled, surprised by the redhead’s playful chuckle. “Alright. You got a Sizzler’s around here or somethin’?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are about to heat up, in every possible way. Thank you so much for reading, I appreciate the support. Please leave a kudos if you enjoyed my writing, and if you already have, just know you've put a smile on my face. Be kind out there, and stay safe.


	11. Chasing Ghosts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian battles with repressed emotions, and Mickey learns an important lesson.

When Yevgeny told Ian what he wanted for lunch, French fries and gravy, the perfect spot came to mind. Hell, he had even chosen the exact meal he planned to order in his head before they made it to the front doors. In a seat across from Mickey, in their worn pleather booth, tan coloured boots skimming against black ones, his mind went blank. Ian had forgotten what he liked to order, and what he enjoyed eating at all. His focus was on how innocent Mickey’s shoulders looked above the table when his legs were so different in the shadows.

He flipped the laminated pages, overwhelmed by the options. Food had always been one of Ian’s simpler tasks, mindless. It was not the same when his body wanted to focus on Mickey’s calves trapping his, their ankles yearning to touch almost as much as their lips. It astonished him at how Mickey chatted with Iggy, as if the things his legs were doing came second nature, as effortless as breathing. Ian questioned if he realized he was doing it at all, his almost lackadaisical attitude in stark contrast to Ian’s frazzled one. 

“Figured out what you wanna eat yet, Red?” Mickey asked, amusement playing on his face.

Their eyes met, and he had to clear his throat to make room for what little voice he had left. “Uh—perogies.”

Iggy’s brows shot up, dragging his fingers down the menu. “They got perogies? I’m dumpin’ the chicken wrap for some of that.”

They were not on the menu. Ian must have been six years old the last time he even tried them. It left his mouth before he knew what he was saying, his sensibility lodged in his throat.

“I don’t see ‘em—we got different menus or somethin’?”

Mickey tightened his grip on Ian’s boot, sliding it to his side of the booth, causing him to shift in his seat to realign. “Just get the wrap, Ig.”

“Yeah, sorry. I forgot where we were—I got the menus mixed up.” Ian explained, trying to ignore the way Mickey’s bottom lip pooled with colour after he bit it.

A bubbly waitress came to his rescue, asking him if he wanted his regular order. If it weren’t for her, he’d have ended up with peppermint tea and a plate of toast. They ate in comfortable silence, Yevgeny sharing stories of the world from his four-year-old mind, calming Ian’s nerves just long enough to swallow his food without choking.

He left a generous tip for the timely services, trying to calculate when Mickey had unearthed his sudden boldness. Ian assumed he had the upper hand, their tryst in the parking lot only amplifying his hypothesis, but somehow the power shifted, and Mickey had him by the short and curlies.

“Can I see the big trucks now?” Yevgeny chirped, splotches of dried ketchup and gravy at the corners of his mouth reminding Ian of his childhood.

“If it’s okay with your dad, it’s okay with me.” Ian grinned, watching the boy hop around at his father’s legs.

Mickey ran a hand through Yevgeny’s hair, followed by a thumbs up that sent the boy into overdrive. “Let’s check it out.”

Iggy sat his nephew on his shoulders during their walk, giving him the best view in the house, his little hands pointing in every direction. They kept their distance, which seemed to simmer Mickey’s confidence back to the surface.

“What’s a guy gotta do to get a private tour of the big trucks?”

Ian had to check to make sure his feet were still contacting the pavement, his legs turning into cotton candy, threatening to float away or melt. “Is that something you’d be interested in?”

“Play your cards right and you just might find out.”

\----------

Bringing Yevgeny to the motor pool was a blast, the soldiers on shift taking their time showing them around, Ian leaning against a Humvee, taking it all in. Mickey was a wonderful dad, and while it didn’t come as a surprise, he knew it must’ve been a tough road for him. He admired the way they played together, and how attentive Mickey was. Every time he kneeled down to be on Yevgeny’s level when they talked, Ian’s heart swelled.

The sky darkened, clouds of grey rolling in, blanketing the compound with pebbles of falling rain. They took a few more photos, shaking hands with the men who showed them around, sauntering back to the redhead.

“Have any indoor activities?” Iggy asked, chuckling as Yevgeny held out his hands to collect the drops.

“We have a movie theater just down the road, a library too—”

The older Milkovich snorted, pulling a smoke to his lips. “I look like someone who hangs out in a library?”

“Any chance you wanna take the kid to see a movie—give me and Ian some time to chill?” Mickey asked his brother, the suggestion making Ian’s mouth go dry.

“Sure. They got the new flicks or is it some old fashioned shit?”

Ian huffed out a laugh, pulling out his phone to check the listings. “We’re up to date around here—we even have popcorn.”

“Cool—see you fuckers soon. I’ll text ya.” Iggy said, challenging Yevgeny in a race to the theater, hanging back a few paces so the little boy would win, the two of them taking off without hesitation.

“You look like a fuckin’ wet rat.” Mickey teased, nudging Ian so hard he stumbled. “What’s the matter, Army? Too weak to fight back?”

Ian’s worries washed away with the rain, shoving him back, and laughing as Mickey chased him in circles, too quick on his feet to let the redhead slip by. “Oh, you don’t wanna go up against me. I’m all stamina, baby.”

“Is that right?”

“You better believe it.”

Mickey sniffed, running his thumb over his bottom lip, the weight of the rain teasing his forehead with black tendrils, trails of water dripping off the tip of his nose. “I wanna see your favourite spot—I wanna know where you hangout.”

“It’s kinda boring.”

“Take me there.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

Ian closed the gap between them, wiping Mickey’s forehead with damp sleeves. “Follow me.”

\----------

The modern building was expansive like many others on base, large windows bathing the wardrobes of literature in natural light. A cheerful woman sat at a desk off to the side, nodding at Ian as they entered. He led them down several quiet aisles of books, slowing as they reached the spot he liked most, massive bookshelves ending at the wall, creating a private nook.

“This is it.” Ian shrugged, leaning his back against the wall. “I come here almost every day.”

Mickey ran his fingers along a row of books, giving extra attention to the spines with texture. “Whaddya like to read?”

“Lots of stuff—romance.”

“Romance?” Mickey asked with a crooked grin.

“Yup. Kept me sane overseas.”

He nodded, gliding a book off the shelf, and flipping through it. “What was it like?”

“Reading romance novels?”

“Nah man—the army shit. War.”

Ian sucked in a breath, crossing his legs at his ankles. “It’s kinda hard to explain.”

“Try.”

“Well it was hot and tiring. Missions would last longer than they should. They always faced us with unpredictable shit. A lot of us got hurt. Some of us didn’t make it home. That was the worst part for me. I lost some noble friends out there.”

Mickey slid the book back in its proper place, turning to reach for Ian’s hand. “I’m sorry you went through that, man. I can’t imagine.”

“It’s okay. Our commanders did their best to prepare us for it. We knew what we signed up for.”

“Doesn’t sound okay to me.” Mickey murmured, looking down at their hands, his thumbs gliding across Ian’s freckled fingers. “Is that why you come here, to get away from all that shit?”

“Pretty much.” He sighed, hanging his head. “Helps me forget.”

“Ever think of me?”

Ian straightened up on the wall, turning his hands to rub Mickey’s. “A lot.”

“When you were on deployment?”

“Every day.” He whispered, looking up at glossy blue eyes. “Every time I blinked—you were there. It helped me get through the scary stuff, closing my eyes and seeing your face. You were always on my mind." Ian’s blood pulsed in his ears, his heart racing against his chest. “What are you thinking about?”

Mickey reached up, guiding Ian's chin, the world around them falling away. “Kissin’ you.”

They closed their eyes as their lips brushed, heavy swallows echoing between them. Slow, gentle kisses pulled them together, years of longing and heart ache stepping away to let them have their moment together, a moment of pure bliss.

Ian murmured a secret against Mickey’s lips as he rested their foreheads together. “I’m so fuckin’ nervous.”

He chuckled, his voice a whisper. “Me too.”

They tipped back into tenderness, finding each other again, warm lips sipping their love like a mug of cocoa. Mickey tasted just the way he remembered, their tongues swiping through parted mouths, sending tremors to the tips of his fingers and throughout his body. He never wanted it to end, he wanted to feel Mickey’s lips on his forever.

Ian’s hands wandered down Mickey’s sides, resting at his hips, squeezing as their tongues twisted and licked. He’d always liked his scent, feeling himself smile against their kisses at the glory that he never lost it.

“Fuck are you smilin’ about?”

“You smell like Mickey.”

He grinned, sucking on Ian’s cupid’s bow. “Don’t tell him, he’d be real jealous.”

“He should be. You’re makin’ my pants a little too tight.”

They snickered, Mickey’s mouth moving to his chin, the redhead leaning his head back as lips dragged down his neck, quiet moans vibrating the surface of their skin.

“Gallagher!” Sgt. Ortiz barked, his sharpness jolting Mickey backward and away from their world.

“What?” Ian snapped, pushing himself off the wall and bracing against the gigantic bookcase.

Mickey rotated, his curiosity getting the best of him. The men glared at each other, daggers firing between them like hollow tip bullets.

“We need to report to the barracks.” Sgt. Ortiz said, his eyes flitting to Ian’s, doused in sadness and envy. “Now.”

“What the fuck for? I’m off today. I have company.”

He huffed. “I can see that.”

“You got somethin’ to say?” Mickey snapped, squaring his shoulders, his fists locked and loaded.

“Oh, I’ve got plenty to say.”

Ian stepped between them. “Leave, Emilio.”

“No. I told you, we gotta go.”

“I’ll be over in a second. You’re not my fuckin’ boss— _leave_.”

The other soldier slammed his open palm against a section of books, knocking them out of place before trudging out of sight.

Ian turned to Mickey with stooped shoulders. “I didn’t know he was comin’ in here.”

“He your fuckin’ boyfriend or something?”

“No.”

“Then what the fuck is his problem?” He asked, jaw flexing. “He didn’t like me being in here with you.”

“It’s nothing, Mick—I promise.” Ian stepped forward, but Mickey took two steps back. “Don’t do this.”

“Don’t fuckin’ lie to me then.”

Ian considered his options, and at the moment, none of them were pleasant. He would have told him about Emilio, as they spent more time together and shared more of their intimate lives. It wasn’t something he wanted to touch on during their first weekend together, and he didn’t want it to go down the way it did. He ended things with Emilio, left no loose ends to get tangled in.

“What do you wanna know?”

“Are you sleeping with him?

“No.”

“Were you?”

The heat drained from his skin, a tsunami flooding him with bitter cold. “Yes. But it meant nothing to me.”

Mickey braced himself on bent knees, like someone had thumped the wind from his chest. “When?”

“When what?”

“When did you sleep with him last? After you came home?”

“God no! Mickey—shit with us ended as soon as I saw you again.”

“So, there was something.”

“Well—”

“You said it was nothin’, but if you had to end it, there was something.”

Ian crumbled into his secret corner, hiding behind his hands, wishing he could blink it all away. “I was lonely, okay? I’m sorry. If I knew you’d be coming back into my life, I would have waited. Believe me. _Please_.”

Mickey crouched in front of him, blowing out a ragged breath. “Okay, Ian. I believe you. I’m sorry I got so upset—shit caught me off guard. You didn’t deserve that.”

“Do you want to go?”

“No.”

“Please stay.”

“I will.”

“I can’t handle you leaving.”

“Ian, I’m here. I’m not gonna leave you.”

Mickey wrapped his body around him, letting the tears come. A swell of Ian’s sobs rocked through them like they were on the road, hitting every divot and pothole. He wanted to stop, but the harder he tried, the more he lost his grip. Every tear seemed to be an unspoken wound, fastened to his heart like a barnacle until he let his walls come down.

“Hey Ian—you alright, man?” Sgt. Singh queried, kneeling down next to Mickey. “What’s going on?”

“Everything hurts.”

“Look at me.” The soldier demanded, his empathy matching Mickey’s. “Sergeant Gallagher, get those eyes up!”

Ian pulled himself together long enough to meet his friend’s order.

“We need to report to the barracks, your squad is waiting for you. On your feet, soldier.”

The men helped guide him back to his feet, brushing him off and waiting for him to stabilize.

“What’s happening at the barracks?” Ian asked, patting damp eyes with his jacket.

“G.I. party.” Sgt. Singh smirked, sending a brotherly punch to his shoulder.

“A fuckin’ party? They’re getting on his case for a damn jamboree?” Mickey blurted, scowling at their skewed priorities.

Ian cracked a smile, swiping under his nose with the back of his hand. “Not that kind of party, Mick. It’s a total shit show. Come on, I’ll bring you along for the ride. You’re gonna get a kick out of the chaos.”

They ambled out of the library, a speckling of baby blue marbling the skies, moving the rain to another town. Ian’s posture tightened up as he got closer to his comrades, his emotions tucked back inside the box. Dressers, desks, TV’s, and bed frames crowded the grassy area that Yevgeny was once playing on, looking like a mass eviction was taking place.

Mickey watched soldier after soldier march out of the building, holding one piece of furniture or another. “What the hell?”

“This,” Ian said, shaking his head with a chuckle, “is a G.I. party.”

“Why are they puttin’ everything on the lawn?”

“Someone failed inspection. By the looks of it, several people did. It’s the runts on the first floor. They haven’t learned their lesson yet.”

“They make you guys tear everything apart?”

“If it’s bad enough, yeah. Most of our rooms are spotless, but it only takes a couple dickheads to spoil it for the rest of us.”

“Your place too?”

“Yup. Every nook and cranny.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you think they'll find in Ian's room?


	12. Burn Brightly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Intimacy. Trust. Rebuilding.

The Southside thug was no stranger to chaos, although watching two dozen soldiers with guns strapped to their backs, perform the cha-cha slide between overturned pieces of furniture while their shouts reverberated against the walls, rivalled his experiences.

Ian elbowed his way through the amateur dancers, desensitized by the commotion. He led them to an elevator that clutter had blocked from one of the adjacent rooms. Mickey helped him slide the obstructions from the doorway, a definite fire hazard, the redhead barking orders at another soldier to keep the area clear. It was the sexiest thing Mickey had seen all day, apart from the way his pupils dilated when their tongues tangled back in the library.

When they reached Ian’s floor, it was like stepping into another dimension. Not a single item looked out of place. Much like an old apartment complex, noise travelled through the floors, but there were no bins full of knickknacks, or mismatched side tables to trip over.

“What happened to you fuckers havin’ to empty your rooms?” Mickey asked, watching freckled hands fumble with a key card. “You get a free pass or somethin’?”

“Ah, the perks of rank.” Ian winked, shouldering the door open.

“You’re the boss around here, huh?”

“Not quite, but Sergeant has its incentives. We got lucky today. I didn’t wanna have to lug everything out.”

Ian’s space was much bigger in person, the faint scent of lemon accenting each immaculate room as Mickey gave himself the grand tour. He paused in the bathroom to admire how tidy everything was, bottles of products stacked on the laminate countertop, a lone towel hanging to dry behind the door. He considered sniffing it, and if the redhead wasn’t trailing behind, he would have.

“Nice place.”

“It’s decent. Not as bad as my first duty station, that’s for sure.”

“Think you’ll get to stay here?”

Ian shrugged off his camo jacket, folding it over the back of a chair. “I hope so. It would suck to get transferred further away.”

“Nothin’ closer to home?”

He slid off his nylon belt in one fell swoop, dropping it on the table. “Nah, this is as close as I get. Beats the hell out of being stationed in Korea or Germany, though.”

Mickey’s heart dropped into his stomach. “Didn’t know they could send you out that far.”

“It’s not super common, but it happens.” Ian murmured, tugging at his shirt until it untucked from the waistband of his pants. “Used to think it would be awesome.”

“Used to?”

Ian nodded, yanking Mickey toward him with a smile that had him wishing he’d joined the army too. “I’ve got too much to lose now.”

Ian meant it to be sincere, that much he was sure of, but the statement stung him somehow. “What changed?”

Ian took a step back, his hands on either side of Mickey’s arms. “What do you mean?”

“I just figure since you never wrote me—”

“Mickey—”

“Nah—look, I ain’t cryin’ about it or nothin’. Just curious why I matter to—”

A heavy knock rattled the tension between them, scaring Mickey into next week, while Ian stood with a despondent look on his face. It wasn’t until the knocks almost took the door off its hinges that the redhead moved to answer it.

“What’s crackin’ Private Ryan?” Iggy blurted, his happy nephew carrying a half-eaten bag of popcorn that looked to be almost as big as him. “Phone died—a cadet downstairs pointed me in your direction. Sweet digs.”

“How was the movie?” Ian asked, scooping the little boy into his arms as soon as he reached up.

“Uncle Iggy stole a bag of gummy bears!” Yevgeny chirped, the candy villain glancing at both men like he’d just stolen the Mona Lisa.

“Oh really?” Mickey interrogated, holding back the urge to smack the idiot upside his head. “Well Uncle Iggy is lucky he didn’t get caught. Military prison is _even worse_ than regular prison—that is why we don’t take things without paying for them—isn’t that right, _Iggy_?” He glared at his older brother, guilty eyes letting him know that the message was loud and clear.

“You guys hungry?” Ian asked.

“Not yet. Figured me and the kid could grab somethin’ on the way to the motel.”

Ian rocked on his feet, Yevgeny resting in the crook of his neck. “Heading back there already?”

“He’s wiped right out—bedtime ain’t too far off.” Iggy explained. “What about y’all? You fuckers eat yet?”

“I’ll come with ya, eat when we check in.” Mickey couldn’t help but notice the disappointment written all over the redhead’s face.

Ian didn’t speak, continuing to rock while Yevgeny blinked over his shoulder. Iggy nattered on about the movie, and how every soldier he’d seen on the way to the barracks, looked like they had a titanium stick up their ass. Mickey could only stare at Ian, the way he held his son with such gentleness making his insides churn. Yevgeny took to Ian faster than Mickey expected.

When they shuffled toward the door to leave, Ian reached for his arm. “Can you come by later?”

“How much later?”

“Like say—twenty-three hundred hours? Give or take a few minutes.”

“Huh?”

“Sorry—eleven o’clock.” Ian chuckled. “I’m on military time. Habit.”

“Ain’t that a little late to hang out? What about the curfew shit?”

“It’s the weekend. We’ve got ‘till about one o’clock, maybe two, before they rattle cages.”

Mickey figured the redhead had a mighty deep itch to scratch, inviting him back so late, and in front of his brother no less. “Maybe. I’ll text ya.”

\----------

Ian tore through his storage tote, pulling out the plastic bag of letters, dumping them onto his bed. He scanned over each envelope, trying to decide if he should haul them all to the motel, or toss them in a barrel doused in gasoline. There were so many, written from all different phases of his deployment, sorting through them would be impossible to do on his own, at least in one sitting. He couldn’t remember most of what he’d written about, just that he’d scooped out his soul a few times too many, saturating the pages with his most emotional inner workings.

Ian stripped down to his boxers, and sprawled out on his bed amongst all the envelopes, sharp edges hurting much less than the look on Mickey’s face when he brought it up. Ian had written to him, but it didn’t change the fact that for years on end, Mickey’s perspective did not reflect that.

He reached under his back, pulling one out and holding it above him.

_Mickey Milkovich_

_1955 S. Trumbull Ave._

_Chicago, IL, 60623, USA_

He’d written out that address over ninety-two times, closer to two hundred if he had to guess. Iggy being able to salvage so many of them was impressive, not saying much for Terry and his ability to be thorough, the rest rotting in a landfill somewhere.

_Hi Mick,_

_I promised myself I would stop writing to you, I know you don’t want to hear from me. What’s this one… letter #189? #206? I stopped writing that down, too. I’ve even resorted to giving all my stationary shit to Ortiz. He writes to his mom a lot. I guess it’s terrible, but I haven’t written to Monica even once. The last time I saw her, she was tweaking out in a trailer with some douchebag selling meth. I slept in a tent in their yard before enlisting, I couldn’t stand to be in the same room as them. She’s the craziest person I’ve ever met. I love her, but she’s a nightmare to deal with, and the shitty assholes she seems to pick, it’s like she’s trying to downgrade. I guess nobody decent wants to put up with her, or maybe she pushes the good ones away? It must be lonely to be that sick. Anyway._

_Mandy sent me mail a couple weeks back, and I ripped it open so fast I shredded it apart. It was nice hearing from her, but I don’t think I read a single word that stuck, aside from her getting out of that house. I realized she hadn’t mentioned you at all, and my brain sort of blanked it all out. Stupid. Anyway, she’s off on her own and far from Chicago, so I’m sure life is only going to move up from there. I thought maybe you might’ve moved too, but Lip says he still sees you around sometimes. Do you think you’ll ever want to leave the Southside? It’d be cool to move to the beach or something. Sandals and tequila sound like Heaven compared to where I am right now._

_I guess asking you how you’re doing for the millionth time is lame, so I’ll just leave it here. I’ve already rambled too much. This is the last sheet of paper I have until I’m home, I’ll try to resist buying more._

_I_ ‘ _m sorry I couldn’t make it better between us. Leaving you was the worst mistake of my life, and if I don’t make it back, I need you to know how much I miss you. It’s like the day we met, my soul split into two, and nothing feels whole. Food doesn’t taste right. Every song feels like it’s missing the instrumentals. Life just isn’t the same. You’re the first thing on my mind when the sun comes up. Even the army can’t make that go away. You put colour into my world, and I’ll never forget you._

 _I_ _hope you find happiness._

_Ian_

Ian folded up the letter, hot tears pooling at the sides of his pillow. He rolled over, paper clutched in his hand, and fell into a restless sleep.

\----------

Mickey banged on the door so many times he wondered if he had the wrong room. Where the hell was he? It was almost eleven, and he’d texted the redhead until his fingers cramped. Ian had mentioned something about a date, so he’d be a total monster to deny the gesture. He brushed his teeth twice and put on a little too much of the redhead’s favourite cologne. Seemed like a waste to sleep on a fresh shave.

He thrashed against the door one more time, a muffled voice groaning inside, followed by a crash and what sounded like a failed attempt at redecorating.

“Mickey!” Ian panted, throwing open the door. “You came.”

“I was gonna say the same to you.” Mickey teased, enjoying the flush of colour creeping up his freckled neck. “You stick your tongue in a toaster or somethin’? What’s up with your hair?”

“Oh—I fell asleep. Come in for a sec, I just need to freshen up.”

“Alright Marilyn Monroe, you go freshen up. I’m gonna head outside for a smoke, meet you out there?”

“Yeah, that’s great. I’ll be quick, don’t leave okay?”

“Chill Gallagher. I ain’t leavin’. Showed up, didn’t I?”

“You did. Thanks for that.”

Mickey nodded, patting the redhead on his cheek before heading into the cool air to calm his nerves with some good old fashioned chemicals. The compound looked so different at night, quiet except for the rows of family homes he walked past on the way to Ian’s building. The houses all looked the same, but he liked them. Star spangled flags flapping in the breeze, a white picket fence adorning the American dream.

“Waiting for Ian?” Sgt. Ortiz muttered, wandering outside with a cigarette of his own.

“They got a medal for that? Honorary award for _stating the obvious_ or some shit?”

“He never told me you were such a prick.”

“Guess he didn’t tell ya much then, did he?”

“He talked about you all the time.” He said, smoke rings floating around him. “It damn near killed him, he never heard from you.”

“How ‘bout you stay the fuck out of my business _Emilio_. I’ve busted up a set of pearly whites for a lot less.”

“It isn’t just your business, pal.” Sgt. Ortiz sneered, muscles flexing in his forearms. “Ian’s a great guy. One of the rare ones. He’s respected around here, and he’s been going through some tough shit. You mess with him, and you’ve got a whole squad ready to step in.”

Mickey stubbed out his smoke on the bottom of his boot, flicking the butt into the grass. “I don’t know who you think you are, _pal_ , but where I come from, we don’t need a _squad_. Push me too far and I’d be more than happy to show you how we do it back home.”

Ian jogged out of the barracks, stopping in front of their session of brotherly bonding. “What’re you doin’ out here, Emilio?”

“Just getting acquainted with your friend here. Seems like a real nice guy, Ian. You’re swinging for the fences with this one.”

Mickey sprung forward, grabbing the angry soldier by the collar of his shirt, slamming him against brick. “I fuckin’ warned you, asshole.”

“Mickey, don’t.” Ian shouted, trying to defuse the bomb before anyone got too curious about the dispute. “You can’t do this here. You’ll get arrested—come on, let go. It’s okay. We’re okay.”

His hands dropped from the man’s shirt, turning on his heel to put some distance between them before he couldn’t keep the cork on his temper any longer. Ian’s footsteps crunched through the gravel behind him, long arms stopping him in his tracks, and twisting him around.

“I cannot believe you sucked that guys dick.” Mickey barked, pushing Ian’s hands away. “He’s such a fuckin’ scumbag.”

“I’m sorry—he’s acting like an idiot because he’s jealous or something.”

“No shit. Guess I’m not the only one hung up on your freckled ass. I wanna knock that guy the fuck out.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I didn’t.”

“Didn’t what?”

“Suck his dick.” Ian grinned, pulling at the cuff on his dress shirt. “Only you.”

Mickey snorted, heat building in his abdomen. “That makes me feel _a little_ better.”

“I’m also taking _you_ out on a date tonight, so if you ask me—”

“Yeah, okay. Don’t push your luck, Champ.” Mickey huffed, giving the redhead a once over for the first time since he freshened up. “You look good.”

“Thanks.” Ian beamed, spinning to show off his outfit. “Civilian clothes are the bees knees.”

“Where the hell are you takin’ me, anyway? I’m starved.”

\----------

The chow hall reminded him of the cafeteria back in high school, only larger, with more stations and tables. It was a bright space, with a simple layout, the walls lined with army flags. There were no flowers, or candles, and no sappy music. Mickey’s shoulders dropped, and the tension in his back loosened. It was the perfect spot for a first date.

“Where is everybody?” Mickey asked.

“Usually it’s packed in here, but they moved midnight chow to the other hall tonight.”

“What’re we gonna eat?”

“You’ll see.”

They sat at a table in the middle of the room, their nervous banter echoing around them. Mickey told him about the time Iggy pretended Yevgeny was his, to pick up a chick he’d been trying to bone for months, only to find out she was looking for a full-time nanny position and misunderstood his signals, thinking he was some rich dad because he stole a designer jacket for their date. Ian fired back with the time a translator in Afghanistan tricked them into believing they were telling people to _have a great day_ when they were saying _I shit in my pants when I sleep_ and it got him fired, but he was one of their favourites and he spent a solid month trying to convince them to hire him back.

Something savoury wafted through the hall, both men glancing at the vivacious young woman making her way over to them with trays of dinner.

“This is Melissa. Melissa, this is Mick.”

They exchanged pleasantries, her jovial demeanor making it easy to strike up a conversation. “Nice to meet ya. You stayed up late to do this for us?” Mickey asked.

“It’s no biggie! I enjoy doing midnight chow, and I love cookin’ so this is the best. When Ian put me up to it, I couldn’t wait to put this together.” She chimed, sliding plates in front of them. “I hope you like lobster.”

“Never tried it.” Mickey admitted, both Ian and Melissa raising their brows. “Looks delicious, though. Thanks.”

“Well I hope you like it, there’s more comin’ so you might wanna unbutton your pants.”

Ian burst into laughter with one glance at Mickey, clutching his sides when he couldn’t get it under control, and it was music to his ears. “You alright over there, Giggles?”

“He always laughs at the way I talk.” Melissa beamed. “Not a tough crowd, this one.”

The redhead collected himself long enough to thank her, the two of them being left alone to their lobster and a large bowl of melted butter.

“What’s the butter for?”

Ian cracked the lobster shell, pulling out a strip of meat with his fingers and dipping it into the bowl. “See?”

Mickey tried to use a fork to fuss with the crustacean, wanting to put his best table manners to the test, but he only got a tiny piece out before Ian stole his fork and tossed it down on the table. “Hey! I was usin’ that.”

“No you weren’t. It was like watching a T-Rex try to play basketball. Use your hands, Mick. It’s way more fun and you might eat somethin’.”

The redhead smiled at him, uncovering new dimples he hadn’t noticed before, his appetite growing for more than just lobster. He dipped a chunk of meat into the butter, coating the tips of his fingers, slurping up the bite and wondering how he’d gone his entire life without eating something so tasty.

“Fuck this is good.”

“Right? Melissa’s the best cook we have, hands down. I can’t believe you’ve never tried this before. We eat it like once a week at least.”

“Uncle Sam must have a hefty grocery bill. What does it cost you to eat here?”

“Single soldiers eat for free.” Ian said, butter dripping down his chin. “But it only costs like two or three bucks for anyone else. Hard to beat when the foods this good.”

“Ever use that kitchen of yours to cook?”

“Do pizza bites count as cooking?”

It reminded Mickey of the time he made them for Ian, right before everything fell apart. “You do like those.”

Ian seemed to pick up on the flashback. “Want some more lobster?”

“Fuck yeah.”

They ate until they were ready to grow tails and join the creatures in the sea, hands slathered almost to their wrists. Mickey followed Ian’s long fingers, as he dipped one more piece and reached across the table to slip it past his lips, lingering until he sucked every bit of the flavour off them. He dipped his fingers once again, letting out a soft moan when Mickey sucked them down further before nibbling the tips and sitting back.

“I missed that mouth.” Ian murmured, sending an inferno crackling up his thighs. “Spent a lotta late nights thinkin’ about it.”

Mickey looked around the hall, not a human in sight. “What’re you gonna do about it?”

He leaned forward, pulling Mickey’s hand to his mouth, returning the favour by swirling his tongue at the tips of his fingers, sucking them down, one at a time, until they were both smoldering with desire.

“Want that private tour yet?” He whispered, pressing kisses to Mickey’s palm, dragging them across his wrist. “Nobody there, either.”

“What ‘bout dessert? You think you’re gonna hit a home run with a little seafood?”

“Said nothing about a home run. I was thinkin’ third base. Burn off a little energy before we dive into dessert.”

They shot out of their chairs, scrambling for the door, Melissa popping her head out to check on them.

“Leaving already? I’ve got more on the menu!”

“Be back in twenty!” Ian said, squeezing his friend who giggled at his embrace.

“That’s perfect, I need a little more time back here. Go have fun—don’t piss off the MP’s.”

\----------

They ran full tilt toward the motor pool, their laughter setting the sky on fire. Stars twinkled like they created the universe. Ian unlocked the gate, sliding it shut after they snuck through the gap. Ian was a terrible tour guide, dragging him to a Humvee tucked deep in the convoy, helping Mickey into the vehicle before climbing inside with the grace of an octopus.

“We gonna get in trouble?” Mickey asked, laughing against the redhead’s lips as he plunged forward, drinking him in like fine wine.

“Kiss me, Mick. Nothing else matters.”

Ian shifted in Mickey’s lap, straddling him as they writhed and pushed against each other, kissing through the pleasure, the friction between them pulling out sweet little gasps. Mickey’s hands explored the redhead’s body, quivering at each new discovery. They were men now, their bodies harder and stronger than when they first met.

“You smell so fuckin’ good, Ian.”

The redhead danced his lips around to Mickey’s earlobe, tugging at it with his teeth. “Now you know what I’ve been going through. Your scent drives me wild.”

Fingers played each other like a harp, as they humped until they were stiff. Ian hovered over Mickey’s mouth, a breath shared between them. “I wanna suck your cock, is that—something you’d like right now?”

“Do you even have to ask?” Mickey chuckled, stroking the hairs on the back of Ian’s neck. “I might not last too long.”

Ian bit his lip, shifting them into a better position, unbuttoning Mickey’s pants and sliding them down with rapid precision. “Fine by me, if we get out of here without me exploding in my pants, we gotta buy a lottery ticket.”

Mickey threw his head back with a chuckle, gripping his hands at the back of Ian’s head as he moved lower, pressing a kiss every inch of the way. His stomach twitched in certain spots, lips in places he never thought would touch him again. Ian glanced up to check in with him, sliding further down when he gave a quiet nod.

“This is a dream.” He stammered, quivering when Ian placed a kiss on the head of his cock, lapping up the bead of pre-cum glistening at the tip. “I need you, Ian.”

He buckled with pleasure, swallowed down to the hilt, the pressure of his tongue against the pull of his cheeks overwhelming him with the warm tingles, racing up and down his legs. Ian made sounds like he was eating the most exquisite spoonful of ice cream, the vibrations of his moans bringing him to the edge.

“I can taste it.” Ian growled, slowing his pace, giving extra care to the ridge of his cock with smooth slurping kisses. “Come in my mouth.”

Mickey relaxed as his white-hot orgasm spilled into Ian’s swollen mouth, legs quaking with every burst. Ian swallowed with a smack of his lips, dizzy from arousal, a buzzing in his ears pulling them from the truck and placing them in the sky's canvas to float with the planets.

“I haven’t had this in so long.” Mickey said, fighting back a rim of tears.

“This is just the beginning.” He murmured, kissing his temple, and pulling him close. “Wait ‘till you see what we have for dessert.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was sort of a part one to their date night. The next chapter continues where they left off, and we have a big reveal.


	13. Return to Sender

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moments of pleasure, moments of weakness. Heavy dialogue. 
> 
> Smut. Can't forget the smut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your support so far, I'm really enjoying this world. The next few chapters will be laced with some heavy angst, but sweet moments are never far off. I'll be away for a week, but I'm hoping to post again next Saturday. Have an amazing weekend, stay healthy and safe. Kudos are always appreciated.

Time got away from them, curled up with each other in the armored vehicle, Mickey gliding his fingers over every switch and piece of cold equipment. It inspired a flood of hushed questions. They were a bid to fill in the blank spaces that the years had left behind, but he enjoyed listening to the redhead talk. Ian was an open book, chattering a mile a minute, one story blending into the next, and breaking off into another. A glance at his watch, and they were off like two smitten rockets, careening through the chow hall doors and back to a table full of treats.

Melissa left a note, turning down some lights and replacing the florescent burn with a battery-powered lantern. The yellow glow broke up the shadows. Cheesecake was Mickey’s new favourite indulgence, fresh fruit dripping in sauce and sliding through the tines of their forks, dropping in silent splashes on the surface between them as they exchanged bites.

“I’m stuffed, man.” Mickey chortled, licking blueberry sauce from the tip of his thumb. “You shitheads got any takeout boxes around here?”

Ian stumbled to his feet, clutching his belly like he was pregnant, disappearing into the kitchen, and returning with armfuls of Styrofoam containers. The cook left explicit instructions to take the rest of what she prepared, a large pot and several pans loaded to the brim with enough food to feed an army. They scraped their desserts into the boxes, moving into the kitchen to repeat.

“You gotta take some of this to Iggy and Yev.” Ian suggested, stacking each container, before moving on to the next.

“Fuck that!” Mickey blurted, tossing back another bite of lobster. “I just ate my weight in fancy ass food, I ain’t makin’ it back to the motel.”

Ian pulled open the fridge, twisting the caps off two beers. “Cheers, Mick.”

“What we gonna do about all these dishes?”

“I’ll wash ‘em up.” Ian said, nodding at the industrial dishwasher. “Won’t take long.”

“Lemme help. I need to stop shoving my face, anyway.”

“No way! This is date night—you don’t do dishes on date night.”

“I do whatever the fuck I wanna do.” He smirked, spraying down a plate and handing it to Ian. “Besides, I feel like a dick for shootin’ down your whole date idea.”

“You didn’t shoot it down.”

“Kinda did. I’m sure whatever you had planned didn’t involve hiding in a building and barricading the doors.”

“The doors were wide open, and this was my idea from the jump.” Ian consoled, flicking water in Mickey’s face. “Not everything has to be some elaborate event. I was nervous too. Eating in a restaurant alone seemed like a whole lotta pressure.”

“Pressure?” Mickey teased, sliding sudsy hands behind Ian’s neck. “I look high maintenance to you?”

“Mmm. Very.” Ian gushed, sucking Mickey’s bottom lip into a kiss. “You had me losin’ grip with reality at lunch today.”

“That was way too easy—you looked like a deer in headlights.”

“I was one step away from jerking off in a bathroom stall.”

“You should’ve.” Mickey said, pinching Ian’s muscular ass cheek. “I would have joined you.”

The redhead loaded the last of the dishes into the machine, wiping damp hands on his pant leg. “Tease.”

Mickey watched as his angular face went dark, his smile hardening into a stiff line. “What’s wrong?”

“I have to tell you something.”

Dry mouth, heart hammering, Mickey pulled him closer. “I’m all ears.”

“I don’t know how much longer I’m gonna be in the army.”

Relief washed over him, settling the dozens of terrible scenarios in his head. It wasn’t the worst bomb he could drop. “Okay. How come? Quittin’?”

Ian leaned against the stainless steel sink, white knuckles drawing focus to the tension in his body. “Would you still wanna see me—if I had to stop?”

He tilted his head, wishing he could read the redhead’s thoughts. There was a deep-rooted sadness carved between his eyebrows, shoulders losing vigor, head hanging, and it broke his heart. “I don’t give a shit what you do for work, man. You in trouble or somethin’?”

“No, nothing like that.”

“What is it then?”

“I think something’s—wrong.”

“Wrong how? Ian, did someone hurt you?”

“No.”

“Talk to me. What’s goin’ on?”

“It might be a false alarm. I’m still trying to process all the shit from overseas.” Ian said, squeezing the bridge of his nose with his fingers, wheezing out a huff of breath. “It’s my head.”

Mickey swiped his clammy palms against his thighs, analyzing the conversation he had with Fiona. “Depression?”

“Sort of. Monica—my mom, she’s pretty fucked up.”

“That don’t mean you got what she’s got.”

He nodded, tapping his temples. “Can’t be a soldier if I’m mentally ill. Doesn’t matter what I’ve got.”

The kitchen fell silent, the sounds of breathing being the only source of noise drifting between them. He’d witnessed his fair share of mental illness throughout his life, almost all of it undiagnosed, but a mental health crisis all the same. He couldn’t think of many people he’d met that didn’t fit the bill for a diagnosis. He wondered to himself sometimes if he did too. There was a stigma not only on the Southside, but in his childhood home, Milkoviches didn’t go to therapy.

Mandy struggled with all kinds of social situations, going through phases of laying in bed all day, days on end without a shower, and too many hours into a TV show that she wasn’t paying attention to. His mom wasn’t the picture of mental wellness, track marks up and down her arms as long as he could remember, crawling into his bed when he was little, to sob into his pillow, muffled apologies for things he never understood. His memories of her had long since faded, but he had a sneaking suspicion that she hadn’t been well for a long time. Terry—well, he was a tyrant of epic proportions, spending more time in the prison system than he did in the free world. Who knew what mental shit infiltrated his brain to make him the way he was? Mickey always assumed it was his upbringing, but he grew up with the world’s shittiest parents too, and he didn’t take it out on Yevgeny. 

“What should we do about it?” Mickey asked, Ian’s wide eyes snapping up to meet his.

“We?”

“Yeah, man. I’m not gonna fuck off just ‘cause you’re goin’ through some shit.”

“What about Yevgeny?”

“What _about_ Yevgeny? He’s young, still. He’s not gonna notice, unless something crazy happens— _sorry_. Not crazy. Something big.”

“That’s just it, I can’t control when my lights are on but nobody’s home, y’know?”

Mickey stepped in front of Ian, holding him against the sink in a tight hug. “Are you home now?”

Ian let out a heavy breath against his neck. “Definitely.”

“We still got time before I get thrown out of here for the night?”

“Half an hour, give or take. Why?”

“I want you to take me back to your place and let me love you.”

\----------

Warm vibrations sizzled beneath the surface of Ian’s skin, as each piece of clothing fell to the floor. Hungry fingers unzipped and unbuttoned with precision. Mickey skimmed his fingers against the dimples on Ian’s lower back, every hair on his body reacting to the tantalizing chills.

Naked in their embrace, they searched for every inviting point of pleasure, the soft skin in the crooks of their arms, the firmness of the flesh on their backsides, shuddering each time they uncovered a spike of euphoria with their mouths.

Ian flicked his tongue over his lover’s nipples, alternating between licks and tweaks. Teeth drew out the most erotic moans he’d ever heard, a pulse of arousal throbbing at the sound of Mickey’s excitement. His hands were rough, but his body was soft as velvet. Ian wanted to ravage him as they stood trembling by the door. He’d craved Mickey’s calloused hands for years. The way he would knead his tension away, replacing soreness with scorching tingles that made his body light as a feather.

“Mickey—don’t stop.”

He grinned with heavy eyelids. “Yes, Sergeant.”

“Fuck. Stop talking.”

Mickey huffed a chuckle against his collarbone. “Why, Gallagher? Can’t handle a little dirty talk?”

“Not unless you want me to jizz on the carpet.”

Fingers slid between Ian's pale ass cheeks, pelvis surging against Mickey as his finger brushed against the knot of nerves at his entrance. “This okay?”

Ian panted as Mickey licked the tip of his forefinger, moving it back to trace the tight folds of his rim. Ian's eyes rolled back as he nodded, Mickey’s finger wriggled inside, stopping to let him adjust. Swollen lips teased his nipples until they were as hard as his erection.

“I like feelin’ you from the inside—so warm and _tight_.”

“Shhh.” Ian shivered, groaning into his mouth as their tongues charged. “I’m so serious. Your voice is gonna—”

“Gonna what?” Mickey purred, shifting to whisper against his ear. “Make you drip? Or are you gonna cover my stomach with your hot—”

“Get on the fuckin’ bed.” Ian hissed, milky fluid leaking from his slit.

Mickey obliged, sprawling onto his stomach, angling his ass up for Ian to worship. “Eat me out.”

“Fuck—I thought you’d never ask.”

Ian caressed his shapely body, moving his fingers down thick thighs, tracing them back up and spreading him open, thumbs massaging him further into the bed. He sunk his teeth into quivering skin, kissing away the jolts of pain, speechless as each of his pleasure filled gasps set the pace. Mickey pushed against his face with an impatient groan, Ian leaning forward to penetrate him with his tongue, pushing deeper into him with each bob of his head.

“Get on me.”

Swirling his tongue until his pink entrance glistened, he delved his pliant mouth inside until he bottomed out. “I’m the one who’s not gonna last very long this time.”

“It’s all good, man. I’m close.”

Reaching under his bed for a bottle and a condom, he popped the lid open with one hand, cold lubricant drizzling between Mickey’s plump ass. He spread the liquid with light pressure, working his fingers inside, stretching him beyond what his tongue could achieve. “How’re you feeling?”

“Ready.”

Ian traced his rim with the head of his cock, embedding himself into the pressure with aching leisure. Mickey bucked against him, anchoring them together, their cries sparking a fire and lighting them up.

“ _Mickey_.”

“You like that?” He panted, rocking against him, pulling him in deep. “ _Harder_.”

He draped his body along the back of his lover, slipping his freckled arms under Mickey’s biceps, interlocking them cheek to cheek, their moans amplified, working together to bathe each other in euphoria. “I love you, Mickey— _I love you so much_.”

“Oh god Ian, keep goin’—keep goin’.”

“Come for me, Mickey. I’m almost there.”

Mickey let out a loud groan, balling his fists through his climax, the sensation making Ian’s toes curl. Breathless, he leaned into Ian, supporting his body as he reached his own peak, his deafening whine splitting Mickey’s face with an exulting grin. 

“You woke your neighbors up with that one.”

“Sorry—couldn’t help it.” He chortled, slipping the condom off, and dropping it beside the bed.

“What are you apologizing for, man? You do that too much—you’re perfect.”

“Please don’t go.” Ian begged, reaching for his wrist.

“Hey—just gotta use the can. I’ll be right back.” Mickey said, planting a kiss on his lips first.

Ian stumbled to his feet, grabbing a pair of sweatpants from his drawer, heading into the kitchen to grab them something to drink. “I’ve got juice, energy drinks, and water. Pick your poison.”

“What kinda juice?”

“Orange.”

“Sounds good to me—you already toss out the raincoat?”

“Nah, it’s beside the bed somewhere.”

Mickey scoffed, nuzzling Ian’s shoulder before heading over to throw it away. “Humans are so gross.”

“Tell me about it. Oh! I got something for you.” Ian chimed, ruffling through his cupboard to grab the penguin plushy he left the compound to find. Silky soft fur against his fingers. “I may have sprayed it with my cologne—”

He turned around to see Mickey gripping a letter in his hands. The rapid rise and fall of his chest magnified the devastation etched on his face.

“What the fuck is this?”


	14. Same Tree, Different Apple

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Secrets are revealed. Boundaries are tested. Mickey finds his courage.

There were words on the page, and Ian wrote them, that much Mickey calculated. The rest was like a gratuitous gaze through a kaleidoscope.

“Are you gonna answer me?”

“I don’t know what to say,” Ian whispered.

“Let’s start with _anything_ and go from there.” He clipped. The redhead opened and closed his mouth, the penguin being repurposed as a makeshift stress ball. Mickey flumped onto the bed; the letter extended in front of him.

“I wrote you.”

“I realize that. Why didn’t you send it?”

A decade passed before his response made it to the surface. “I did.”

“What the fuck are you saying right now?”

“They didn’t make it to you.”

Mickey squeezed the paper without cognizance until it crinkled. “They got returned?”

“No. Well, sort of.”

“Ian—I don’t want to play twenty fucking questions.”

“Promise not to get upset at Iggy.”

“What the fuck would I get mad at him for?”

“He had the letters.”

“ _Letters_? How many letters?”

“Lots.”

Mickey stood up with a hand rested on his tightened throat. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“He was hiding them.”

“That still doesn’t make sense,” Mickey concluded.

“Terry tossed them all in the garbage. Iggy fished them out of the trash and stored them in a plastic bag. I got them back while I was home.”

He ran his thumb over his eyebrow. “Ian, are you messing with me?”

“No! I thought you were ignoring me. I had no clue you weren’t getting them. I sent like—hundreds.”

Mickey wheezed, the muscles in his forehead strained. “Why didn’t you call me? Why didn’t you tell Mandy or your fuckin’ family?”

“I thought about it all the time. I guess I didn’t want to come off that way—”

“What fucking way?”

“The desperate twink you experimented with that lost his shit and wouldn’t leave you alone, I guess.”

Mickey tried to blink away his clouded vision. “You have no idea what I went through, sitting in that house waiting for a single god damn text message or phone call.”

“I couldn’t call you.”

“Are you kidding me right now? You couldn’t call me. So when you came home, between your fucking deployments, you had your phone privileges taken away? You couldn’t drop me a message—check to see if I was getting your letters? Take some time off from marching in the streets with guns to show up at my door and tell me you didn’t forget about me?”

Ian reached for Mickey’s hand, and when he snatched it away, his gaze unfocused. “What about you? You knew where my family lived. You had endless opportunities to ask them how to reach me. Don’t put this all on me. Nobody was hiding my mail—I didn’t get a single thing from you.”

They stared at each other with down-turned lips, their puffed out chests a disguise for the waves of guilt that surged between them.

“You took off.”

“You got married.”

Mickey exhaled through pursed lips. “I told you that was just a piece of paper.”

“You didn’t have to do it.” Ian retorted, his pale face losing colour. “You were scared, and I get it. I was scared too. But you didn’t have to marry her. I begged you not to do it.”

“I had no other choice, Ian. No other fuckin’ choice. I was a kid—with no money—no education. All I had was a pregnant whore, and a criminal record. It confused me. What was I gonna do? Hide on your couch until my dad huffed and puffed and blew your fucking house down?”

“Maybe, or we could have packed our shit and took off. Got shitty jobs somewhere—a hole in the wall to rent until we found something better. At least we’d be together.”

Mickey turned on his heel and left without another word. Ian heard the door click shut, before he tossed the flightless bird at it, plastic eyes causing a loud thud. The door whipped open, angry tattoos reaching for the toy with a glare. “This is mine.”

“Why are you leaving?”

“Curfew!” Mickey said, before he disappeared with his battered bird.

When Ian was alone again, he wiped his hands across his face, putting their conversation on replay. The room spun all around him. His body went limp as the exhaustion set in, passing out as soon as his head hit the pillow.

\----------

Iggy nodded at his younger brother with a beer raised in his hand. It was well past midnight, but insomnia was among the many Milkovich curses. Mickey checked to make sure Yevgeny was fast asleep in the other room, before he stomped toward his sibling, sending a fist cracking against his cheekbone, the pain catching them both off-guard.

“What the fuck was that for, asshole?” Iggy growled with his hand pressed against his face.

His toppled beer dumped onto the outdated carpet beside him, neither man reaching for it.

“You knew.”

“Knew what? That you hit like a fuckin’ girl?”

Mickey landed another punch at the bridge of his nose, blood trickling down his shirt. “How’s that? Better?”

Iggy grinned through bloodied teeth, lunging forward with a head butt that knocked Mickey off his feet. “You wanna square off with the big dogs, be ready to get bit, fucker.”

Mickey kicked his brother’s legs out from under him, retaliation coming in the form of a knee to the groin. Both men too scrappy to let up until they were breathless lumps on the floor, they fought like they did as teenagers.

“Gonna tell me what this is about?” Iggy panted, as he leaned his weight behind a sharp elbow to pin his brother down. “I ain’t in the mood for guessin’ games.”

“You hid my fuckin’ letters.”

Iggy loosened his grip, sitting up on his knees. “You should be thankin’ me.”

“Go fuck yourself. You ruined my life.” Mickey coughed, scrambling to sit up.

“I didn’t ruin shit. You ruined it all on your own. I did you a favor.”

“Letting me mope around the house, living a lie for five fucking years? Some favor. Remind me not to expect a Christmas gift this year.”

“When did you get so dramatic?”

“You had no right to keep them from me.”

“What would you have done, man? Lose your shit and fuckin’ murder dad, or worse—the other way around. What do you think he woulda done if he caught you with them? What about your bitch of a wife? I didn’t want to unleash a shit storm.”

“You should’ve told me.”

“Mick—“

“Nah, I’m fuckin’ done with you.”

Iggy blinked at his sibling as his heart leaked onto the carpet with his wasted drink. They strapped him inside the carnival ride, but the bell didn’t ring before the drop. Without warning, the floor fell out below him, and he plunged. There was nothing he cared about more than his family. Estrangement wasn’t an option for them. They had to stick together. It was all they had to rely on in the world.

“I thought I was doin’ the right thing. I’m sorry.”

\----------

Rain pattered against the window, stirring Ian from his dreams. He observed the gloomy sky with sleep blurred eyes, each rivulet of rain reflecting how he felt inside. The window was closed, but the room had a damp chill, something only a hot shower could remedy. Getting himself from the warm blankets to the cold bathroom was a problematic hurdle. He unplugged his alarm, reaching to check his phone for messages. Nothing from Mickey. He closed his eyes and drifted.

Hours later, a knock at his door shot him out of bed.

“Hey.” Mickey murmured.

“Shit—what happened to your face?”

“Me and Ig got into it. Can I come in?”

“Of course.”

Ian rummaged through his reprehensible breakfast cabinet, in search of something with nutritional value that hadn’t gone stale. Mickey leaned against the door, toeing off his unlaced boots, the puffiness under his eyes balanced by the bruising on the high points of his cheeks and brow bone.

“Okay its eggs or expired toaster strudels.”

“Eggs. I like the yoke runny—I don’t think frozen stuff expires, man.”

Ian chuckled. “Frozen food expires.”

“Any breakfast you can put in the toaster and eat ain’t real food, though.”

“So grilled cheese isn’t actual food?”

Mickey smirked as he slid open the window to light a smoke. “Get outta here. You can’t make that shit in a toaster.”

“Yes, you can!”

“Like a toaster oven, or the kind you put slices of bread into?”

“The bread slices one. I used to do it all the time.” Ian said, striding across the room to steal Mickey’s cigarette. He took a long drag before crushing it against the metal frame. “Tip it on its side, makes a perfect grilled cheese.”

“Sounds like a fire hazard.”

They stood together as the dreary sky cracked with daylight, looking out at the army compound as it reanimated.

Ian cooked a plate of eggs for Mickey, smiling to himself as he gobbled them up. He reached out to wipe a spot of yolk from the corner of his mouth. A tiny sound vibrated in his throat at the touch. Mickey had gone his entire life without someone to touch him like that. His blue eyes softened.

“Gonna tell me what happened with Iggy?”

Mickey shook his head. “Had some things we needed to work out.”

“It wasn’t his fault.”

“I know.”

Ian inched forward until they were chest to chest. “You didn’t say it back.”

“The fuck are you talkin’ about?”

“I told you I loved you last night—you didn’t say it back.”

“Come on, man.”

Freckled fingers wriggled into dark hair, guiding his head until their lips brushed. “It’s okay if you don’t.”

“Stop it.”

“I’m serious. It’s totally understandable. My hair is too red—”

“You’re a child.”

“—my freckles are too freckly. I have way too many, y’know? I’m too tall for my own good and don’t get me started on the rest of my body. Yuck.”

Mickey buried his face against Ian’s chest to hide his intensifying chortles. “What else?”

“Well I’m good with kids. Too good, really. I make friends wherever I go.”

“Gag me with a spoon.”

Ian’s smile beamed against the top of his lover’s head. “I’m an excellent dancer. I love animals. I give literally the world’s best back rubs.”

“You sound like a train wreck.” Mickey simpered, pulling back enough to catch Ian’s glistening eyes with his own.

“I am.”

“You mentioned nothing about your kissing skills.” He teased as he explored Ian’s back with the tips of his fingers. “Seems like a crucial selling point.”

“Oh, I kiss like a fish. Super bad. Only the most desperate people dare to go there with me.”

Mickey scoffed, swallowing hard. “Callin’ me desperate?”

“Mhm.” Ian goaded. “We could try it out—test the theory.”

He feigned a grimace, followed by a brow quirk that challenged the red head to make the first move. “I mean, it’s for science, right?”

“Right.”

They tilted into each other like climbing vines, searching for sunlight. Mickey’s scent blended with lemon made him think of the time he tried to make lemon meringue pie. He wanted to do it again, in a kitchen he shared with the only boy he’d ever loved. Ian wanted to see him take a bite, and maybe laugh at how terrible he was at baking. He wanted it all.

Their tongues swirling and lapping, fluttered heart beats and devotion poured between them. Their mouths sipped at each other until they were drunk, bodies simmering with warmth, almost vertiginous. Mickey slid his hands low, a gentle pull to guide Ian toward his groin, where his erection throbbed with fervor. Ian moaned somewhere deep in his throat, as his own pleasure rose to meet the demand.

“I wanna suck you off.”

Ian grinned. “Request granted.”

He skimmed his lips all the way down Ian’s torso, until he was on his knees, teeth raked over the bulge in the red heads pants. “Take these off, geek.”

The sharp hiss of a zipper and a quiet thump exposed him. By the time Mickey blinked, Ian was undressed, and ready for the passion he yearned to show. He stretched his mouth over long, pink arousal, reveling at the way Ian arched his back. His cock stiffened the further he dipped. Sucked down to the brink, Ian squirmed as shock waves of ecstasy rained over him, a melody of gags and moans pulled from jolted thrusts into his lover’s throat.

“I like when you gag on it.” Ian admitted, heat prickling the apples of his cheeks. “I know that’s kinda weird—”

“It’s all good, man.”

“Do you like it, too?”

He hummed a kiss to the tip of his cock. “Fuck yeah.”

“You don’t have to do it though. It feels fantastic either way.”

Mickey sat back with a quiet pop as he broke suction. “Ian—relax. I’ll let you know if I’m not down with something, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Close your eyes. I want you to picture yourself filling the back of my throat with your come.”

Ian whined. “Shh. You fuck me up so hard when you do that.”

“So hard.” Mickey grinned as he sped up the intervals of pressure. “You tense up when you’re about to let go, fuckin’ turns me on.”

“Mick—”

“I like the way you taste.”

“Fuck. I’m almost there.”

Mickey twisted a slow stroke to Ian’s pulsing shaft. “Guess I better take it easy, then.”

“No, don’t stop. Please—I’m so close.”

He savored the way Ian needed him, compelled to draw it out as long as possible. A quick drag of his own pants sprung his thick erection free, as the lazy strokes on his own cock teased the red heads abandoned one. Ian observed him, heavy lidded, as strings of pre-cum landed on his lover’s lap.

“You like watchin’ me jerk off, Red?”

Ian groaned in response as he nibbled at his lower lip.

“What about now?” Mickey asked as he coated two fingers in his mouth. He looked up at his red head, stretching himself out on his knees, as his body rocked on his hand. “Just for you.”

“I need your mouth.” Ian murmured. “Now.”

Mickey obliged as their heat tremored together. “Tell me.”

He leaned his head back, all whimpers and thrusts. “I love you, Mickey—I fuckin’—love you so much.”

It was a whisper, but in Mickey’s ears it rang like a church bell, transcending his fears and his doubts until everything was white, and it was only them.

“I’m coming. Oh—fuck.” Ian cried out, his deep ache gulped down with ease, glistening on Mickey’s chin as he let his own release brew to the edge.

Mickey jerked his cock with tenacity. One hand rested on Ian’s shoulder as the red head kneeled to join him. “Fuck, Gallagher.”

“Move your hand.” Ian rasped as he took over with freckled strokes and every beautiful, slick sound. “Come for me.”

The thrill drugged him, as if helium filled the walls of his head. “There. Yeah—”

Ian’s hands wrapped around him, he burst at the seams.

Their orgasms made them both deaf for a moment, each nerve ending titillated, muffled pants and quiet relief. Then there was laughter. Obnoxious, contagious, boisterous laughter. They slumped to the floor together, eyes fixed to the water-stained ceiling, belly laughs, and happiness jumbled up with their sticky mess. 

They had a lot to work out. There were still so many unanswered questions. But some things were impossible to ignore, and their bond was one of them.

Mickey wasn’t ready to say it out loud, but he loved Ian Gallagher, and every single freckle, with every chamber of his heart.

\----------

Mickey tried to break the ice with Iggy on their drive home, but the older brother held a grudge like gravity held him to the earth, and the tension was almost unbearable. They were both at fault, but it didn’t matter. Emotional maturity and ego played a big role in how long their wheels spun in mud. He promised himself he’d take Ian up on the flight next time, with his brother or not. At least the trip would be shorter.

Yevgeny drifted in and out of sleep, and Mickey couldn’t help but to reflect on his son’s life so far. He had only been alive four years, and he’d seen more than his share of trauma. He chewed at the dry skin on his fingers, his ruminations lightened by the cool air from the crack in the window. He wondered if a placement in adoption may have been the more empathetic choice. Mickey didn’t want another broken Milkovich in the world, least of all at his negligence. He wanted Yevgeny to have a life he didn’t have to run from.

It was too late to go back, but maybe it wasn’t too late to change the trajectory.

“Stop in at Cook County.” Mickey said as they approached the vicinity. It was not a request.

“Huh? What for?” Iggy asked. “Got friends in there?”

“Just do it, okay?”

They took the detour, a curious glance at his sibling before they parked outside the gate. Mickey emptied his pockets, a quick pat across his body to make sure he was free of anything that might implicate him or snag him up in the security process.

“Mick, what’s goin’ on?”

“You cool to hang out with the kid for a bit? Play at the park or something?”

“Sure. How long you gonna be?” Iggy asked, anxious about the sudden deviation.

He steeled himself. “I won’t be long. I’ll text you.” 

“You ain’t turnin’ yourself in for something, are you? You gotta tell me, brother.”

“Nah, nothin’ like that. I swear.” Mickey assured as he opened the passenger door. “Hey Ig?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for always lookin’ out for Yev, and for helping me with him.”

Iggy nodded. “’Course. What’s family for, right?”

The walk to reception made his blood pump at high tempo with a familiar and unwelcome chill. The waiting room was empty, and the odour made his stomach churn. He thought of Ian and his lemons. His fear deteriorated, and he followed through. The woman at the desk looked miserable and bored, and he couldn’t blame her.

“How can I help you?”

Mickey let out a deep breath. “I’m here to visit Terry Milkovich.”

“Relationship to the inmate?”

“He’s uh—he’s my father.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not the last we'll hear of the letters. I have plans for those.  
> Thank you for reading. Have an awesome long weekend!


	15. Perfect Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey conquers his biggest fear, only to be faced with a new one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter references traumatic subjects. I made sure to tag this story as a trigger warning early on, as well as addressing it in the notes, and while there are many beautiful moments on the horizon, I think it's an important reminder. Otherwise I hope you enjoy. Thanks for reading.

A paunchy guard escorted Mickey through security, after giving him an arduous pat down. The man reeked like he hadn’t taken a shower in weeks, and his uniform was at least two sizes too small, accenting the half chub he sported after his interrogation. It turned Mickey’s stomach sour, along with his mounting anxiety. He felt like a suspect. That was nothing out of the ordinary. They pegged him as the person who would smuggle contraband before he had the chance to speak; it wasn’t worth arguing. Sporting an attitude would only make matters worse. It was one reason he hated stepping foot in the penitentiary.

He sat alone in the sterile visitation room, sweaty palms, and a mouth as dry as the Sahara Desert. Florescent bulbs flickered, a shadow cast on the drab walls, lined with old vending machines. With closed eyes, he focused on the incessant buzzing of the lights, battling sudden claustrophobia. Buying snacks to keep himself busy crossed his mind, but he knew he was already being watched. To draw more attention to himself was inauspicious.

It must have been an hour before Terry trudged through the door, opposite the one Mickey entered. The speech he recited in his head evaded him, a flush of fear prickling through him, followed by familiar revulsion.

His father wasn’t pleased to see him. Happiness wasn’t an emotion the man seemed to emulate under any circumstance. It stung, but Mickey swallowed it down.

“Hey pops.”

“Someone die? Must’ve, since you fuckers never come visit unless you got bad news.” Terry drawled, his leathery face set in a scowl, worn out like the rest of him.

“Nobody died.”

“Fuck you want then? You pulled me out of a card game.”

Mickey shook his head, jaw clenched to keep from spitting in his face. “I came to say goodbye.”

“Goodbye? You get into some kinda trouble—fuckin’ off to Canada or some shit?”

“Nah, I’m staying put.”

“Your balls drop, kid? About time you and Svetlana figure your shit out.”

Terry spoke as if he held a morsel of pride. The concept of Mickey being a decent husband to his bogus wife offered him more affection from his father than anything he had ever done.

“She left.” Mickey said, tapping his fingers on the cold table top.

“Huh?”

“Svetlana. The night you got arrested. She didn’t come back.”

“That’s women for you. Your mom fucked off so many times I almost forgot what the bitch looked like. She’ll come crawlin’ back. They always do.”

“Don’t matter. I didn’t love her, I never have. If she comes back, I’m sending her packing.”

“Since when have you given a shit about being a role model to your kid?”

“It’s about more than that, and you know it.”

Terry scoffed. “This better not be your faggot shit.”

Mickey observed how that slur spilled from his mouth as it always had, the way his face twisted up in repugnance. It hit him that his father, though quite the gambler, never played with a full deck. He operated on ignorance and insecurity, and somehow it all made sense.

“Do you remember that time when I was like—five years old, you slammed mom against the tile around the bathtub? You split her head open, right behind her ear.”

The older man snarled. “I’m not in the mood for your bullshit, Mickey. You got somethin’ to say, you better say it quick before I knock you into next week.”

“Yeah, you’re not gonna touch me, ‘cause if you do, I’ll end you right here. You so much as lean forward and you’ll spend the next month in the infirmary.”

“You ungrateful little shit.”

“Answer the question, dad. Do you remember that? The way she cried out for help when you were too drunk.”

“You want a fuckin’ apology? I ain’t giving you one. Your mother was a mental case, a cheating little whore. She deserved what she got.”

Mickey moved his hands to his lap, anchoring himself to the chair. “She wasn’t. Then again, everything you touch dies or turns to shit, so can’t say I’m surprised to hear that. You make everyone who loves you suffer.”

“One step away from a wheelchair, kid. One step.”

“I only ask because when I got my first boyfriend, you figured it was so disgusting, I had to pay for it with my life. You watched a woman rape me, you paid her to. Imagine some guy in here, doing that to you. It was like that, only a hundred times more horrible. Something I gotta carry with me forever. How you figured my relationship was worse than yours is beyond me. I loved Ian. You’ve loved nothing in your miserable fucking life.”

“No son of mine is some goddamn shirtlifter.”

“Well that’s just it. You say it like it’s some honor to be your son. It’s not. If I could cut that part out of me, I wouldn’t think twice. That brings me to why I’m here.”

“About fuckin’ time.” Terry snapped, beads of sweat dripping down his forehead. “Cough it up.”

“You’re not coming around the house when you get out—you won’t come looking for me either. You’ll never see Yevgeny, and he won’t remember you.”

“That house is mine, and you ain’t tellin’ me where I can and can’t go. Soon as I get out of here, I’m breakin’ both your fucking legs.”

Mickey glanced at the guard peering at them from the corner of the room, before lowering his voice, his eyes burning into his fathers. “I wonder what would happen to you, if I told that CO back there about what you did to Mandy. Think he’d keep that to himself? I hear they have a special code for what kind of hell gets unleashed on men like you, when word makes it around the joint. Not even protective custody can save you from all the dicks you’ll have shoved in your ass. All the beatings you’ll get in the showers when you’re naked and alone, and when you close your eyes to sleep.”

“You threatening me, boy? You are makin’ a big mistake.”

“I’m not afraid of you anymore. I see you—nothing but a coward.”

The older man’s lip curled as he slammed a fist between them. “You’re brave now. Wait ‘till I’m back on the streets.”

“Come on, Terry. I’m right here.” Mickey smirked, leaning back against the chair. “That’s what I thought. Oh, and before I go—I guess I should inform you. I’m gay. Big ol’ ‘mo.”

“Shut your mouth.”

“When I put a ring on Ian’s finger, I will send the invite to whatever grave your worthless body gets dumped in.”

“Get me the fuck out of here!” Terry barked, waving his arms at the guard.

Mickey stood up, straightening out his jacket. “We clear on everything I said? I have motivation to make your time in here uncomfortable.”

“Crystal.” He spat, staring at the floor.

His defeated posture gave Mickey strength. Years of violence coming to an end.

“This applies to Mandy and Iggy too. You don’t have anyone waiting for you on the outside. You come near any of them, or god forbid Ian and his family, I’ll take great pleasure in chopping you up into tiny pieces.”

Mickey nodded at the guard who ushered him in, walking away without looking back. Terry didn’t have the power to denigrate or abuse him anymore. He was free.

\----------

Iggy laughed so hard that beer spilled from his nose. “You said that for real? Holy fuck, Mick.”

“Yup. Shoulda seen his face.” Mickey chuckled, closing Yevgeny’s bedroom door, so the noise didn’t wake him. “Pussy. Can’t believe I feared him for so long.”

“Okay, but be real with me, were you shitting bricks, goin’ in there?”

“Oh, fuck yeah. My mind was blank at first. Didn’t think I’d be able to get the words out.”

“I used to dream about that shit as a kid, man.”

Mickey polished off his beer, collapsing on the couch next to his brother. “I wish we could just burn that house to the ground.”

“We can.” Iggy grinned, shooting up in his seat like he just came up with the next marvellous invention. “Let’s do it. We can call Mands, get her down here. Trauma therapy—Milkovich style.”

“None of us can afford to catch an arson case right now.”

“So we don’t get caught. Fuck, I’d love to see that shit box lit up.”

“Where the hell would you even live?”

“I’d move to Pittsburgh.”

Mickey snorted. “Pittsburgh? The fuck is out there?”

“I dunno. Somewhere new. Fresh start and shit.” Iggy shrugged, his lopsided grin taking years off his stress ridden face. “I’d move in with your stupid ass, but you’re gonna have a boyfriend in here soon enough. Gotta leave room for big Red.”

“Ian? He’s not moving in here.”

“Maybe not right away, but that is the next big step, bro.”

“I don’t think so. We’re not even like—dating or whatever.”

“That’s high school shit, Mick. If you guys still feel something after all this time, you can’t sleep on it. Life’s too short. Nobody has looked at us, the way he looks at you. Plus, you did that thing with your hair.”

“What thing?”

“When you comb it all fancy and shit. You wanna look good for him. You never gave two fucks about those things with Svet, and you lived with her for years. Envision doing that with someone you love, waking up in the same house, eatin’ breakfast.”

Mickey gawked at his older brother. “Breakfast? Is that a relationship goal for you?”

A punch sailed straight to his arm. “Eat a dick.”

They sat in the quiet living room, flowers all around them beginning to wilt, producing the sweetest fragrance despite it. Ian filled his home with flowers because he knew it would make him feel seen, happy. It was a gesture from the heart.

“What if it falls apart?”

“I don’t know shit about relationships, but I don’t think you make it to eighty-five years old on a porch swing without hard work and a lot of forgiveness. You got a big heart, man. I know you can handle whatever comes at you guys.”

Mickey pulled a petal off the nearest plant, massaging the silky surface between bruised fingers. He lost his ambition to be the FUCK-U-UP kid. It was a survival mechanism he didn’t need in his life away from his childhood, and all that came with it. He wanted to be a loving dad, a reliable brother, and maybe one day, a caring husband too. 

“Sorry for what happened. I lost my shit. Hope you can forgive me for that.”

Iggy ruminated on the apology for a few beats, pulling his brother into a tight hug. “Me too. We still got a lotta piss and vinegar in us, that’s for sure.”

“We good?” Mickey asked, leaning into the embrace.

“Solid. But I am sleeping on your couch tonight, and you owe me an extra shirt. I bled all over the other one.”

“Deal.”

Iggy stumbled to the kitchen, grabbing the last bottles of beer from the fridge, handing one to Mickey. “Here’s to us figuring out how to enjoy our lives and shit.”

The necks of their bottles clinked. “Here’s to us.”

\----------

Mickey’s first shift at the club moved smoother than he expected. The manager might have missed the mark, but the bartender caught onto his lack of mixology experience within the first five minutes. He got a walk through of the simplest and most common drinks, as they worked side by side throughout the night. Mickey asked questions and learned as he plugged along. His eyes swayed the customers impatience along with how his all black outfit hugged his thick thighs. His ability to tolerate those kinds of compliments was an unexpected lesson, one he would have to learn how to manage on his own. One customer even gave him a nickname, Bluebird.

“He’s a regular, and he tips like it’s going out of style. Adopt the sobriquet while you’re here, and you’ll leave with heavier pockets.” Marcus explained as he handed Mickey a box of fresh limes.

“Got it.” Mickey smirked. “Everyone in juvie got nicknames, too. Wherever we came from, was what they called us. Same goes for the clink.”

The bartender chuckled. “Bad boy, huh?”

“Nah, more like—raised in poverty with shitty parents boy.”

“I get it. I grew up in a rough neighborhood. A hard edge was how we coped—wasn’t always an option.” Marcus nodded as he slid a row of shot glasses across the bar. “Where you from then, Mickey, _who obviously lied in his job interview_?”

“Southside, born and raised.”

“Southside? I didn’t take you for a Chicago kid.”

“Yeah. My mom moved here from Ukraine when she was young—I’ve never left Illinois unless it was on a run with my dad, or—”

Marcus poured from a cocktail shaker, nodding at the tipsy customers before turning to face Mickey. “Or what?”

“Well, I’ve got a friend livin’ in Missouri. Drove out there to visit him.”

“Ah. Tell me about your friend from Missouri.” Marcus grinned as he wiped down his station. “Does he know he’s just a friend?”

Mickey scoffed as heat crept up his neck. “You’re a chatty fucker.”

“I don’t see you complaining, Southside.”

Mickey couldn’t deny it. He didn’t open up about his life to anyone aside from Ian. Marcus was easy to talk to. “We haven’t figured it out yet.”

“That’s alright. Been there, done that, wore out the t-shirt. How did you guys meet?”

“Same neighborhood—same school.”

“Wait—so he’s a high school sweetheart level friend.” Marcus winked. “That’s somethin’ else entirely.”

The comment made his nerves dance. “How’s that?”

“We never forget those first loves. They shape us. We should all be so lucky to keep ‘em throughout our lives. My childhood sweetheart married some guy he met doing charity work overseas. Still crosses my mind sometimes.”

“He wasn’t the one?” Mickey asked.

“What makes you say that?”

“It didn’t work out—not meant to be, right?”

Marcus chortled, a broad smile complimenting his cognac eyes. “That crap only happens in Hollywood. Nah, I missed my opportunity while getting wrapped up in my shit. The one that got away y’know? Hey—you better grab a break while you can. We get a second wave in about twenty minutes.”

He nodded, grabbing his phone from the drawer before taking off outside where the air smelled less like horny men and desperation.

\----------

Ian shook his head at his comrades, who were busy flicking food at each other across the table. It had been a strenuous day training new soldiers, the drill sergeants sharing the funniest stories they accumulated from their squads being smoked. His phone vibrated beside his tray, an instant boost to his night.

“Hey Mickey, you’re up late.” Ian beamed, the group snapping their eyes to the conversation and hollering like a bunch of hype men. “Sorry—it’s been a long day. These guys are a little wired.”

“Don’t marry Emilio.”

Ian frowned, covering one ear to block out the rowdy noise. “What?”

“Please don’t marry Emilio. Promise me.”

Ian shuffled his way outside, slumping down against a tree, the leaves on the branches whispering in the breeze. “What’s going on? You sound upset—”

“Look, I know I said I wanted to take things slow, but I’m all in, okay? I want to be with you.”

He closed his eyes, clutching his phone like it was Mickey himself. “I want to be with you too.”

“Okay, so let’s do it then. We’re boyfriends.”

Ian huffed out a laugh. “Just like that, huh? Not gonna ask me out? What about my flowers?”

“Fuck flowers. Unless you want them.” Mickey effused. “Do you—want them? What kind do you like?”

“I’m just playing. I want nothing—just you.”

“You sure? I haven’t asked anyone out before. Guess I kinda dropped the ball on the _asking_ part.”

Ian leaned his head against the tree trunk, his body full of warmth. “I’d say practice makes perfect, but I’d kinda like to be the last person you ask.”

It was Mickey’s turn to laugh. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. If that’s cool with you.”

“Fine by me. Saves me a whole lotta trouble—this shit is stressful.”

“I’m all about making your life easier.” Ian teased. “I miss you so much.”

Gunfire rang out from somewhere on base, distant screams bringing him to his feet in an instant.

“Ian what was that?”

“Mick—I gotta go.”

“Stop it. Don’t you dare hang up the phone! Were those gunshots?”

The shots got closer. “I-I have to go—I’m sorry—I love you.”

“Ian!”

 **Call ended**.


	16. Man Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian faces a tragedy. Family comes to his aid.

Mickey gazed at the streetlights above the crosswalk, blurry eyes distorting his surroundings. The lamp appeared almost iridescent as the bulbs switched, directing traffic. Dappled shadows painted the sidewalk, muffled chatter of passersby causing him to question whether he still existed, and if time had frozen him in place. A car horn startled him from the dense fog that fixed his heavy feet to the pavement. He glanced down at his phone at the memory of Ian’s voice.

Tapping the little green icon beside Ian’s number, it rang straight through to his voicemail. He wanted to leave a message, but his words got caught in his throat, and he resolved to hang up and try again.

 _Hey, you’ve reached Ian, you know what to do!_ Beep.

Eight unanswered text messages, and a deafening curse against cool night air, and he found himself in a full sprint, in no particular direction. Mickey stopped at a bench to catch his breath, glancing around for any oncoming buses. He needed a plan, but all reasonable thoughts evaded him. He forgot how to call a taxi, or what his location was if he were to get a hold of someone. Numbness embodied him.

Another call to Ian, another lonely beep. It was late. The club was at max capacity, and he hadn’t notified Marcus that he was leaving. He wondered if he should go back. Someone there would call out for a vehicle to take him—where? Maybe a driver with enough gumption could get him to Missouri in record time.

His phone rang.

“Mick, are you there?” Iggy asked, breathless.

“I’m here.”

“Fuck—I’m glad you picked up. Have you seen the news?”

“The news?”

“Yeah, man. They’re saying some shit about an active shooting at an army base. It’s the same one we were at.” He said, voice thick with worry. “Mickey?”

Silence.

“ _Mikhailo_!”

“What?” Mickey huffed, his eyes fixed on a row of vacuums in a nearby shop window.

“Are you listening, brother? Your boy might be in trouble.”

“Gallagher?”

“Yes! What’s wrong with you?” Iggy snapped. “Where are you right now?”

“Not sure. There're vacuums.”

“What—aren’t you at work?”

“Was.”

“Okay. Find some place to sit, don’t fucking move. I’m coming to get you.”

Mickey picked up on the jingle of keys and the slam of a door, followed by his brother’s heavy breathing. “What about Yevgeny?”

“I’ve got him, Mick. We’re coming right now. You said vacuums? What’s the place called?”

“Don’t know.”

“Look at the banner. Look at the fuckin’ window. What does it say?”

“Pete’s.”

“Okay. Could you please sit down? Sit the fuck down and stay where you are.”

The call ended, and Mickey followed Iggy’s instructions, dropping onto the ground next to a row of old shops. He leaned back, bracing himself on his hands, loose gravel embedded in his palms. It didn’t seem like anything, so he inspected the indents on his hand, left behind by tiny pebbles, just to make sure he wasn’t imagining it. If he had to describe how he perceived it all, it might be like one of the insignificant rocks attached to his skin, trivial. Vehicles roared by. They all looked the same. He checked the clock on his phone, and time he last spoke to Ian. The comparison would have made him anxious if he hadn’t dissociated. 

Tires screeched as a familiar clunker all but collided with the curb.

Iggy pulled him off the ground.

“Where’s Yev?” Mickey queried.

“He’s in the car. Lets go, bud. You’re riding shotgun, okay?”

Mickey nodded, not bothering to clear the seat before plonking inside. “He’s asleep.”

Iggy glanced over his shoulder into the backseat. “Yeah. He passed out on the couch. I was just about to put him to bed before I called.”

“Where are we going?”

“Fiona’s. I got in touch with her, they’re waiting for us. Put your seatbelt on.”

\----------

It was chaos of a different kind. Instead of the upbeat music that rattled the walls, it was an array of news channels blaring through the Gallagher house. Everyone had their phones and tablets out, random blurbs of information clamoring between them.

Mickey shouldered through the door, and before he could clear his throat, there were arms all around him. It was suffocating, and he didn’t understand why he was the one being hugged, but he lifted an arm to reciprocate. A news segment caught his eye over their shoulders.

_…dramatic footage tonight as we follow a tragic rampage at a U.S. Army base. Authorities are on scene after a suspect opened fire with an assault rifle, killing three, and injuring fifteen…_

“Have you heard anything from him?” Lip asked, skin bunching around his eyes. “I keep getting his voicemail.”

Debbie reached for the sleeping child. Fiona handed her a blanket before she disappeared up the stairs. Mickey’s gaze lingered.

“Mick—have you found out anything?” Lip reiterated.

Fiona shook her head, urging everyone to clear the way. She wrapped her arm around Mickey, guiding him into the dimly lit kitchen where it was quieter. A glass of cold water slid into his hand as she encouraged him to take a drink.

“Thanks.” He mumbled, swallowing down the tasteless liquid.

“Do you understand what’s going on?” She asked with a gentle voice.

“Not really.”

“Okay. There’s been an incident.” She explained, resting her hands on his shoulders. “The base where Ian lives is under lockdown.”

“I talked to him.”

“Tonight?”

“Yeah.”

She calmed herself with a deep breath. “What did he say?”

“We’re together now. He’s my—boyfriend.”

“Yeah? Did he say anything else?”

“Said he missed me, loved me. It sounded like—”

Fiona scanned his anguished face, recognizing his detachment. It was a coping mechanism she recognized in many others, herself included. “Like what?”

“There were gunshots. He had to go because—they got—close.”

Something inside him clicked, and the world around him tumbled back in. The fuzziness that clouded his logic lifted, the magnitude of the situation hitting him at once. Fiona caught on, wrapping herself around him as they hit the floor in a pile of sobs.

“Please tell me it’s not bad news!” Debbie wailed, stumbling down the stairs to see them huddled together.

“Nothin’ yet, Debs.” Fiona choked out. “It’s just starting to set in, I think.”

She let out a sigh of relief, smoothing a comforting hand across Mickey’s back. “I got Yevgeny back to sleep, he’s in Ian’s bed. I can look after him if you need to go.”

“Should we go?” Mickey asked, swiping the back of his hand across tear soaked eyes. “They have a hospital on base, is that where they’ll take him if he’s hurt?”

Fiona shrugged. “No clue. We tried every number we could find online. We got through to an office, but they said to check with his emergency contact. I’m not sure who that would be.”

Lip jogged into the kitchen. “They caught the fucker. News says they've detained the suspect.”

“Thank fuck.” Mickey blurted. “So, what then? Can we go out there now?”

“I guess—at least we’ll get some answers before everything opens in the morning.” Lip said, grabbing car keys off the counter. “Who’s all coming?”

Mickey stumbled to his feet, too disoriented to piece together more than his most basic thoughts. “He can’t be dead.”

Lip reached a hand to his shoulder, a gentle squeeze as a reminder he wasn’t alone in his fears.

“Debs, are you still good to hold down the fort while we’re gone?” Fiona asked.

“Totally. I’ve got Yev and Liam. You guys go. I’ll call you when I get a hold of Carl.”

\----------

The drive wasn’t anything like the first one. In place of anticipation, was earth shattering dread. The haze lifted and beneath it was every unpleasant and devastating outcome.

Lip fussed with the radio for hours, as several news stations circulated the same information, no victims’ names being released. They used many of the same words to describe the event. Disturbing, horrific, deadly. Each time Mickey had to swallow the hard lump in his throat, his mind clutched to the hope that Ian got himself to safety before it was too late.

They pulled up to the gates, exhausted and desperate. Security was tighter than his first visit. Patrol vehicles lined the streets, a mix of State and military police, an officer stepping out to stop them before they reached the main gate.

“Are any of you residents or soldiers?” The weary officer asked.

“No,” Lip said. “But my brother lives on base. We’re here for updates.”

“Sorry folks, no visitors today. Only residents and soldiers beyond this point.”

“How can we get in touch with him? He hasn’t been answering his phone.”

“I can’t give out any information—someone should have reached out to his emergency contact.”

Fiona interrupted. “Look, we’re not sure who his emergency contact is. He’s been in the army since he was eighteen—who knows what he put down back then.”

“That’s fair, ma’am. We cannot share any personal information until they have concluded the ongoing investigation.”

Mickey hopped out of the car, the group watching in awe as he moved past the cavalry, straight up to the guard at the gate.

“Hey—remember me? I was just here.”

The guard blinked. “Vaguely.”

“I’ll take it. Yeah, so I’m gonna need you to get on that fancy walkie talkie of yours and find out where the fuck Ian Gallagher is.”

“I can’t. I’m sorry—it’s against protocol.”

“Here’s the thing. I was on the phone with him when that sick fuck started popping off shots. I haven’t heard from him since. You can imagine how that might make a guy a little worried.”

“Sir, as soon as the investigators are through, we will release the information.”

“See, that will not work for me. I need to find out at the very least if he’s alive. There’s a merry band of crazy siblings back there that you do not want unleashed on this already traumatic day, feel me?”

A quick glance around, and a grunt later. “I’ll see what I can do.”

The wait was agonizing. Mickey tried to read the man’s expressions, a grave mistake, because his normal appearance was pessimistic. He expected a morose face if there was bad news, and a relieved one if Ian was okay. He forgot that he was the one who loved the man more than the breath in his lungs. To the average person, Ian might be just another casualty of war.

“Here.” The guard said as he handed over a slip of paper. “This is the address to the hospital.”

“Hospital? Is he one of the wounded?”

“I cannot disclose that.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“I can’t tell you whether he is one of the wounded—but my common sense says he wouldn’t be there picking up groceries.”

“You’re a genuine piece of work, y’know that?” Mickey scoffed. “Thanks for the info, jackass.”

“Figure out where he is?” Iggy asked, his lean body braced against the car, prepared for a Milkovich level altercation between his younger brother and any of the officers.

“I guess so. Hospital—supposed to be ten minutes from here.”

“Let’s get movin’ then. These asshats keep looking at us like we’re criminals.”

“Fuck ’em.” Mickey barked.

Fiona took a long pull from her cigarette. “Is he hurt?”

“Wouldn’t say. Got an address though.”

\----------

The hospital was ten minutes away, so Lip made it to the ER parking lot in five. Mickey jumped out before they came to a complete stop. He marched through the automatic doors, an instant hit of antiseptic and floral tones burning his nostrils. The rest of the group jostled behind him, the wing humming with nurses and staff.

“I’m looking for Ian Gallagher. He was a soldier brought in from that shooting on base.”

A tired nurse clacked away at her keyboard. “Who are you in relation to Mr. Gallagher?”

“His partner. Lover—family, y’know.”

“Okay. He’s on the second floor. Room 210.”

They huddled in the elevator together, furrowed brows, and anxious eyes. The stainless steel doors opened with a chime. The unit was so bright against the white walls that Mickey had to squint as he adjusted. A nurse’s station occupied the center of the unit, several soldiers dressed in their fatigues slumped on the chairs that surrounded it. Mickey searched for red hair, but it was hopeless. Ian had his own room, which only meant one thing.

Fiona pointed at a small gold plate, sliding through the door without hesitance. Mickey watched them enter the room, but reality shelved his bravery. He wasn’t ready to substantiate his fears. Iggy doubled back to check on him.

“What’s up—you okay, bro?”

“Can’t go in there yet.”

“Yes, you can.” Iggy assured. “You got this.”

“What if it’s bad?”

“Then we deal.”

Mickey crept into the room under the quiet beeps and indistinguishable machine sounds. His eyes fell on Ian. A pillow rumpled his hair at the top, freckled arms decorated with tubes and wires. His chest rose and fell in a calm slumber, thin cotton blankets tucked at his sides. Fiona held his hand as she whispered to him, but he was out cold. Lip was on the phone updating the rest of the crew.

“He in a coma or something?” Mickey asked, eager to crawl in beside him.

“It doesn’t look like it. There aren’t any tubes in his throat.” Fiona said, reading the chart beside his bed. “Says GSW. No clue what that means.”

A doctor entered the room in a white laboratory coat, a cordial smile quirking up on his face at the sight of family. He introduced himself before reaching for the chart. “Sorry—we’re not supposed to leave this here. It has been a busy night.”

“I see that.” Fiona said. “I’m his sister—We’re his family. What happened to him?”

“Mr. Gallagher—or would you like me to address him as Sergeant—”

“Ian is fine.”

“Well Ian here came to us with a gun-shot wound to the abdomen. We were told he stepped in front of a fellow soldier to protect him, ended up disarming the assailant.”

“Jesus Christ.” Lip wheezed.

“He is a lucky man—lost a lot of blood, but the bullet didn’t harm any of his organs and his internal structure handled the bullet removal well. We ran a panel of tests and everything has come back strong so far. We are cautiously optimistic—”

“Why cautiously?” Mickey interrupted.

“There are always risks with a trauma like this, but as it stands, his recovery is promising.”

“When will he wake up?” Iggy quizzed, noticing how pale his brother had become.

“He should stir soon, we sedated him several hours ago.”

“Thank you.” Fiona sighed. “Where can I grab some coffee around here?”

The doctor grinned, guiding her out into the hallway.

Lip and Iggy joined Fiona in her pursuit of caffeine, leaving Mickey alone with Ian. He viewed the lines on the monitor, his stomach twisting each time a number changed on the screen. He wished he recognized what it all meant so his stress levels could drop a few pegs.

Every spot in the room was an awkward place to sit. It tempted him to pull Ian into a tight hug, or shake him awake, anything to see a sparkle in his eyes again. It unnerved him that Ian was motionless.

“Why did you have to be a hero, huh?” Mickey asked, pulling a chair to his bedside.

He glanced at Ian’s fingers. His hands were much larger than his own. He was a scrawny little punk when they first met, only taller than him by an inch or two. The years had transformed them both.

“Should I hold your hand or some shit? I guess that’s weird since you’re sleeping. Plus, you got all this stuff attached to ya.” He ran a thumb across his eyebrow in contemplation. “You scared me so bad, Gallagher. I kinda lost it for a bit—hasn’t happened to me since I was a kid. It was like someone was holding my head underwater.”

Light spilled through the blinds, painting the room in shades of pink. Mickey looked at the time as fatigue set in. It was the start of a new day to the rest of the city, but to him it was the longest night of his life. 

“Suns coming up. Rise and shine, Cinderella.” Mickey teased, chewing his lip when the redhead didn’t respond. “Gotta wake up, man. Your family is here. Everyone wants to see you.”

He studied the way Ian’s eyelashes glistened with the morning light. His peaceful body took up so little space in the hospital, but every square inch of his heart. It hurt him in ways he’d never experienced, to see him incapacitated.

“I’m shitty at emotions. I’m not sure what I’ve been so afraid of, ‘specially after this whole thing. On the drive over here, all I could think of was how much I needed you. I can’t imagine a life without you, man.”

Mickey leaned in to rest his head on Ian’s chest, careful not to disturb any of the equipment attached to him. The blue hospital gown had snowflakes on it, and it reminded him of their chilly Chicago winters. He imagined Ian playing in the powdery snow, the mist of his icy breath blanketing his toothy smile, red cheeks, and a nose so cold it would make him shiver when they kissed. He ran his fingers over the pattern, comforted by the warmth beneath it.

“I love you.” Mickey sniffled as he slid his hand into Ian’s. “Do you hear me? I love you.”

“I hear you.” Ian croaked, giving Mickey a drowsy grin when he sprang up from his chest. “About time you admitted it. It’s like I’d need to get shot or something before you’d tell me.”

“Shut up.” Mickey huffed as tears spilled down his cheeks. “You fucker. I thought you died.”

“What—and leave you behind? No way. It was just starting to get good between us.” Ian murmured through chapped lips, his green eyes filled with emotion. “Please don’t cry, Mick. I’m here. I’m okay.”

“Fuck you—you’re okay. You got shot. It was all over the news, man. I was terrified. I swear I’m never letting you out of my sight.”

“Is that a promise?”

“Oh, you say that now, but just wait. I’m not even close to kidding.”

“Come lay with me.” Ian said, wincing as he shifted on the mattress.

“Don’t do that—don’t move.”

“It’s fine. Get in here.” He ordered, lifting his arm to wrap around Mickey. “Come on, before I fall asleep again.”

Mickey rolled his eyes, toeing off his boots before accepting defeat. “Don’t think I’m allowed to be in your bed.”

“Since when have you cared about rules?” Ian whispered through slow blinks. “We gotta practice, anyway.”

“For what?” Mickey chuckled, adjusting himself on the bed with extreme vigilance.

“When we get to do this every night.”

His cheeks stung from smiling as he watched Ian’s slow blinks develop into soft snores. Their family hadn’t returned from their coffee run, so he shut his eyes, but only for a minute.

Sleep had never come so easily.

\----------

He woke up to a kiss on his forehead, immediate panic setting in when he noticed they weren’t alone anymore. A cheery nurse asked him to get down from the bed so she could take Ian’s vitals, and when he gazed at Ian, he could tell that the redhead had been awake for a while.

“Why didn’t you wake me up?”

“You needed the rest,” Ian said, lifting his tongue for the thermometer.

“He bought you some time,” the nurse chimed. “But you can only resist us for so long.”

“Jesus,” Mickey mumbled.

“Don’t be like that,” Lip teased, curled up in a fold out cot that they must have dragged in while he was asleep. “You sleep like an angel.”

“It’s true,” Fiona added, gnawing on a piece of beef jerky. “Everyone kept saying how cute you guys are.”

“I’m going for a fuckin’ smoke.”

Fiona hopped to her feet. “I’ll join you. I could use a pick me up.”

The nurse giggled as she scribbled on her chart. “Y’all are terrible influences on the patient.”

“Like hell,” Mickey smirked. “If you only knew what that colossal idiot does to me behind closed doors.”

Ian erupted into a fit of chortles, clutching his side in pain. “Ow, fuck—you can’t make me laugh, Mick.”

“That’s what you get.”

Ian smiled through his lethargy, and it was like watching ducklings waddle after their mother. A sight for sore eyes.

He ambled through the hospital with Fiona, down the elevator and outside a distance from the building where they could smoke. Patients hobbled around in the sunshine with their gowns flapping as they rolled their IV poles along with them. The fierce sun hit them with sticky heat, not a cloud in the sky. Summer was upon them, and they projected it to be a hot one.

“Doin’ okay?”

Fiona gave a hesitant nod. “Best as I can, I guess. You?”

He shrugged, tapping his smoke, and watching the ashes fall to the ground. “Sounds about right. It’s nice to see him alert and shit. Freaked me out when he wasn’t.”

“Me too,” She admitted. “My head is spinning. I still gotta call work, give them a heads up before they send a damn search party.”

“Shit, I forgot about that. I’m supposed to be at the store.”

Fiona slumped down, burying her head in her hands. “I can’t understand the kinda evil that exists in this world.”

“I already told Ian—after all this shit is over, I’m gonna be on him like white on rice.”

Fiona crinkled her nose. “Ew.”

“Hilarious. You know what I mean.”

“I’m glad he has you lookin’ out for him.”

Mickey grimaced. “I dunno. Not sure I’m the guy you want around in a crisis.” 

Fiona told him a story about a night when Monica got so high, she left food in the oven until it caught fire. They were still young, not knowing how to operate the appliances by themselves. She had passed out beyond any comprehension as smoke filled the house. The only alarm that hadn’t had its batteries removed shrieked into the night. She gathered her siblings, huddled together in the front yard until the fire department arrived. It was the first time she remembered disengaging from traumatic events. Before that, she used to notice everything.

“It’s how our brains protect us. I can’t imagine the shock of that phone call.”

“I wasn’t the one getting shot up.”

“Doesn’t matter. You experienced something most people will never know, and you were helpless to do anything about it. Nobody expects you to know what to do all the time. Sometimes life knocks us on our ass, and it’s out of our control.”

“I’ve loved him since I was a kid,” Mickey confessed. “He’s the first person I ever cared about like that. I assumed I lost him for good this time.”

Fiona grinned, jabbing him in the stomach. “Have you seen the way he looks at you? You’ll need more than death to get that boy off your tail.”

“Yeah?”

“Mickey—we had a full jug of orange juice.”

“What do you mean?”

“That day—when he showed up looking for juice. We already had some. Ian hid it at the back of the fridge. I found it when I was looking for aloe, for the scrapes on his arm. I remember loving someone like that. It’s powerful, like nothing in the world can keep you apart.”

Mickey smirked. “I used to steal Pringles and dip from Kash and Grab just to see him for like two minutes.”

“See?” Fiona giggled. “We call that Southside romance.”


	17. It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian reaches a breaking point. Mickey struggles with insecurities.

Ian appreciated having the support of his family. They were as overbearing as nature intended a Gallagher to be, but their presence was great, as was the esteemed slice of normalcy. Rehashed memories and the downright comical fiascos they found themselves in over the years, helped keep his mind off his circumstances. However, when the conversations lagged, and the connotations set in, he found himself desperate for respite.

Their love for him combined with almighty curiosity led them to ask questions he didn’t have answers for yet. He hadn’t had enough time to comprehend it all. The night in question happened in a flash, and he relied on news reports to piece it together with accuracy. He tried to recall the events as they played out in his memory, but the timeline among other finer details were out of whack. They said the attack happened within a window of twenty minutes. It seemed like an eternity. He wasn’t ready to analyze it yet.

Beyond asking if Ian needed anything, Mickey kept quiet and didn’t push for details. Part of him wondered if he was avoiding it for his own sanity. He’d never seen Mickey so overwrought. Deliveries of flowers and gift baskets rolled into the hospital room, and he helped organize them. As fellow soldiers and their families came to visit, he exchanged pleasantries and took part in small talk when necessary. Sometimes the news broadcasts were overwhelming, so he would change the channel or hand Ian a book to distract him. Mickey understood his plight without having to vocalize it, and it was invaluable to Ian.

After a week of being consumed by the tragedy, he glanced at his siblings’ weary faces and knew it was time for them to get back to their lives.

“I need some space.” Ian blurted, all eyes flitting to him in an instant.

“No worries, sweet face.” Fiona said, reaching for her purse. “We can grab some fresh air—let you rest.”

“I mean like—the kinda space where you guys stop sleeping in chairs and showering in the sink. You have jobs and shit to do. I’m fine now.”

Lip waved his hand. “We’re not gonna leave you alone in some random hospital.”

“I won’t be alone. I have Mick.”

Mickey’s shoulders dropped and his features softened. Ian realized that his statement was vague, and it left his boyfriend tumbling into in a silent spiral.

“You bet. I’m cool to stick around.” Mickey said with a casual shrug. He had zero intention of leaving Ian’s side regardless of his demands, anyway.

Fiona worried her bottom lip. “It doesn’t seem right—leavin’ you.”

“They’re gonna discharge me soon, anyway. I’ll be alright.”

Mickey took on the weird smells, and awkward lack of privacy better than expected. Iggy, however, became jittery after their first day in the hospital, deciding to head back to Chicago to care for Yevgeny. He wound up becoming an impromptu member of the North Wallace house, dealing with Debbie and the rest of the siblings as they spun their wheels in panic. It was entertaining to overhear, but Mickey knew his older brother was reaching his limit.

“Ig could use a break.” Mickey added. “Little Red’s got him reconsidering the comforts of three hots and a cot.”

“You sure?” Lip asked. “We can find a place to crash.”

Ian shook his head. “No need. I’m serious guys, I’m all good.”

They seemed skeptical, but the prospect of sleeping in their own bed without the constant interruption of nurses and strangers was an undeniable temptation.

“Fine, but you call us, okay? We’ll come back if anything changes.” Fiona griped.

“Deal.”

\----------

As soon as they gathered their things and were out the door, Ian heaved a sigh of relief, falling back on his pillow. Mickey’s tittering caught his attention.

“What’s so funny, Milkovich?”

“You. I can’t believe you held out that long.” Mickey said, slumping down on Lip’s abandoned cot. “Your twitches were turnin’ into full blown tics.”

“If she recommended therapy to me one more time, I’d pull a Frank and start drinking hand sanitizer.”

“Try having her as your case worker.”

“No thanks.”

“Don’t wanna share your innermost feelings?”

Ian slung his legs over the side of the bed. “I don’t feel like talking.”

He stumbled to the bathroom, every muscle in his body weak and sore. His room had a private shower, and because it crammed them into the space like sardines, nobody wanted to use it. The handle squeaked, followed by impressive heat and water pressure. Steam poured through the door.

“Want me to call for a nurse?” Mickey asked, staring at the floor.

“Don’t need one.”

“Come on, man. They said you could get dizzy and fall.”

Ian grabbed his boyfriend’s sleeve, guiding him closer. “Lock the door. Take your clothes off.”

Mickey huffed, taking a step back. “What if they come in?”

He performed his most influential eye roll. “There’s an ancient tale overseas about how locks prevent that from happening.”

“Alright—but only ’cause you’re in the shower. No funny business.”

Ian fussed with the snaps on his gown, the fabric dropping at his feet. “C’mere.”

“Gallagher—”

“No funny business, scouts honor.” Ian purred, handing Mickey a bottle of shampoo. “It hurts to lift my arms.”

“You want me to wash your hair?”

“My hair—my back. Anything you’re willing to touch.”

A dark brow quirked. “This is soundin’ a lot like trouble.”

Ian ran his hand along the tile wall, stepping back into the water with a strangled moan. “It’s so warm.”

“I’m not falling for it. You’re barking up the wrong tree, Red.”

He tilted his head as rivulets of water graced his pale skin. Mickey’s nostrils flared at the sight, and Ian drank it up like bourbon. “You won’t hurt me, Mick.”

“Don’t wanna risk it.”

Freckled hands reached for a washcloth, wrapping a bar of soap inside before working it into a rich lather. He winced as he scrubbed the makeshift loofah across his chest. It wasn’t all for show, it hurt a surprising amount. Mickey stood in the doorway, tight lips and crows feet, holding himself back like a rodeo bull waiting to unleash.

Ian traced his fingers down his stomach, careful to avoid his wound, exploring the fuzz above his swelling manhood. “I’m not broken—see?”

“I never thought you were.”

His words were a gentle kindness to Ian’s vulnerability, and he wondered if Mickey knew how much it meant. “You didn’t sign up for damaged goods.”

Clothes fell to the floor as steam and desire drifted above them. “Don’t talk about yourself like that.”

“It’s true.”

“No it’s not. Move over, you sad fucker. Tilt your head and keep your eyes closed. This shit stings.”

Ian being a duty-bound soldier followed orders, heart thundering against his ribcage as Mickey’s fingers massaged the sweet smelling suds against his scalp.

“Does it hurt to bend like this?”

“A little. Everything hurts, though—this isn’t bad.”

“You sure?”

“Positive.” Ian murmured, splaying his hands on the wall behind his lover, boxing him in.

Mickey reached for the shower head, lifting it off the clip. “Keep ‘em closed, okay?”

He nodded. “You’re good at this.”

“Yeah? Make sure you leave me a shining review then, helps keep the clients rollin’ in.”

“Watch it, Mick. I’m injured, but I’ll still fuck a bitch up.”

Mickey laughed with tenderness. “You’re it for me, Gallagher. No need to pummel any poor souls on my account.”

The way he altered between tough and nurturing was captivating. It fanned the flames of his arousal in a way only Mickey knew how to do. The showerhead clicked back in place, and when their eyes met, the hunger that burned between them spilled over into a crash of lips and tongues.

“I wanna fuck you.” Ian whispered, groaning as Mickey pressed soft kisses against his throat, fingers skimming slick skin until his lengthy erection throbbed.

“No can do, Sergeant.”

“I can handle it—we’ll go slow.”

Mickey licked at his cupid’s bow, before creating enough suction at his top lip that his pelvis bucked. “Access denied. We got plenty of time to bang. You need to get better first.”

“You _scared_ , Milkovich?”

He whined as the kisses intensified, his slippery tongue being sucked and pulled with vigor. It made his erection twitch against Ian’s thigh. “Your ginger mind tricks won’t fool me. I’m a man of my word.”

“Oh yeah? How about you get on your knees and tell me all about that?”

Mickey was a man of genuine pulchritude. On his knees, he became a God, melting Ian as he bottomed out at the back of his throat. Each time he gagged, it was a miracle Ian didn’t erupt on the spot. Blown out pupils at the center of lusty blue eyes was an unforgettable sight, one he’d imagined more than once when he was horny and alone.

Submersed in warmth and wrapped in swollen lips, Ian steadied himself. “Rub your cock for me.”

Mickey obliged, cheeks hollowing around him as he stroked his own girth. Water dripped down tendrils of black hair, skin glistening on his handsome face. Escaped echoes of pleasure kept both men trembling at the crest.

“Don’t hold back, Ian.”

“I don’t wanna let go—it feels so good. I don’t want it to stop.”

“Fill my mouth—make me have to swallow twice.”

“Holy shit!” Ian stammered, pain and pleasure fusing as his load crashed through him like a tidal wave. “Take it. Oh fuck, yeah.”

Their climax left them breathless, gasping for air as the water ran cold over their bodies.

\----------

Ian made it through the first week after the attack without so much as a tear in his eye. Meanwhile, Mickey battled a flood of internal turmoil. He needed to be strong for the redhead, so he kept his worries to himself, forcing a smile each time a new face entered the hospital room to commend Ian’s bravery, and thank him for the lives he saved. Mickey chased away the media, and any reporter attempting to finagle a story. He rearranged the flowers in their respective vases, reading each greeting card out loud when Ian needed a break.

Deep down, Mickey was a mess. The only time he disappeared was for a long overdue cigarette, put off until his body trembled in full withdrawal, or a bathroom break he’d spend with the door open. Mickey hadn’t slept for more than an hour at a time, and Ian teased him for being overprotective, as if they hadn’t faced one of the most horrific incidents. Every morning Ian encouraged him to venture outside the hospital walls, something he had no interest in. The redhead was bustling with energy, chatting about everything and nothing at all. It was a genuine surprise that Ian seemed to take it all with stride, much calmer than his anxious boyfriend.

Until he wasn’t.

On the ninth night, Mickey woke up to the bite of flashing lights and a wail so loud he had to cup his hands over his ears at first. He couldn’t differentiate the distress alarm from the screams. Nurses rushed into the room as he blinked away his disorientation, gaze landing on the flailing arms and legs beside him.

“Hey—stop! What’s going on?” Mickey yelled over the commotion, scrambling to get to Ian.

“Sir, we need you to move aside.”

Ian shouted, his eyes wide and panicked. “Run—get out! They got inside!”

“Mr. Gallagher, we’re here to help you, okay?” A nurse bellowed over him. “I need you to take a deep breath. Focus on my voice.”

“I don’t have my orange glasses—they’ll get inside my head—it’s too late!” Ian cried out against restrained wrists. “Help me—please don’t let them do this!”

His heart thundered in his chest, as more white coats pushed to Ian’s bedside. They were living in a bad dream that he couldn’t shake himself out of. It was all a blur.

“Get that away from me—don’t touch me.”

“This is going to help you relax, we’re here to support you.”

“Don’t you fucking dare!” Ian spat, twisting until his eyes locked on a face that seemed to bring instantaneous relief. “Help me. Please—Mickey.”

“A little pinch and we’re done. I promise we are not here to hurt you. Let’s count to ten together, okay?”

They made it to three before the shouting stopped, six by the time the sedation took full effect. It left them with ragged breaths against silence, Ian’s freckled body listless, unmoving.

Mickey pressed his hands against his face as his constricted chest kept him from a full breath. “What the fuck is happening?”

Ian’s doctor flipped through his chart. “It’s too early to say definitively.”

“He was fine when we fell asleep, I don’t understand.”

“Is there a history of mental illness in his family?”

“Fuckin’ probably, you’ve met them.”

The doctor scowled.

“ _Jesus_. Yeah—uh, his mom. She’s got that mood thing. Bipolar.”

“Arrange for transfer.” A voice murmured under the fastening of leather cuffs. “They’ll want to handle observation and assessments.”

“Who?” Mickey choked out.

“The military will handle Mr. Gallagher’s medical care beyond this point.”

“Why? You can’t just kick him out—”

“Pack up what you can, paramedics will be up here shortly.”

Mickey reached for his phone, firing off a text to Fiona before stuffing what he could into a plastic bag. It was going to be another long, sleepless night. Satisfied that he’d gathered their most important belongings, he dropped them by the door.

\----------

As with everything Mickey had witnessed on base so far, the hospital was prestigious and guarded. He wondered if it was always that way, or if recent happenings upped the ante. Unlike a civilian hospital where it seemed anyone could walk in from the street, the process to be at Ian’s bedside required all but a blood test and his first-born child.

The staff weren’t unfriendly, but boyfriend status didn’t rank very high on their scale of importance, so they ignored him after approval. Strict visiting hours meant that he couldn’t curl up next to Ian for the night either. With the redhead being incoherent or unconscious, he spent his window of allotted time studying the deep lines on Ian’s face or napping against the wall.

Iggy offered to set them up in a motel close to Ian, making another drive out to Missouri, this time with Yevgeny in tow. Separation from his son had been more taxing than he’d expected, so it was a welcomed plan. After a reticent nurse shook him awake to notify him that his time was up, he sat outside the building waiting for his family, puffing on a cigarette and reflecting on the whirlwind that had become his life.

“Waiting for a ride?” Sgt. Ortiz asked, grabbing the adjoining seat.

“Quite the observation, Forrest Gump. They hire you for your impeccable investigative skills?”

Ortiz chuckled at his intrepidness. “You’re not even the slightest bit intimidated by me, are you?”

“Fuck no,” Mickey smirked. “So how ‘bout you hop off my dick.”

“I’m here for the same reason you are.”

“Tough luck, Captain Obvious. Visiting hours are up.”

Ortiz leaned to one side, fumbling in his pocket for his own nicotine fix. “That only applies to civilians. I’m not a visitor.”

Mickey jutted his chin. “Good for you—don’t let me keep you, then.”

Tension mounted, the air around them brewing. An ice pick carved Mickey from the inside out, knowing he didn’t have the same privilege to be with Ian as some six foot ass clown in camo. It was a painful reminder that they were born to the same chaos but walked in two different worlds.

“Look—I get that we got off on the wrong foot. I’ll be the first to admit that it sucked serious ass when you started coming around. Ian cares about you, he’s made that transparent. But you don’t know him the way I do.”

“That offer to rearrange your teeth hasn’t left the table.”

“He’s up for MEB.”

“The fuck is that?”

“Medical Evaluation. It’s a committee that decides if he’s fit to serve anymore. Can take months, but most mental health shit puts him in the running for discharge.”

“Sounds to me like a whole lotta _not your business_.” Mickey sneered.

Ortiz shifted to face him with a wide stance. “This isn’t just a job. Ian’s life has purpose. The Army is his family. He loses this, he goes back to being Ian Gallagher from the Southside.”

“You say that like it’s a fuckin’ bad thing.”

“It is. He’s a career soldier. You don’t spend years dedicated to being somebody indispensable, just to fall back to the same shit that ruined you to begin with. He won’t be happy living some mundane existence, he’ll need people around him who understand—who really get him. Especially if the army has to let him go.”

“What are you tryin’ to say?”

“If you care about him, you’ll stay out of the way and let his family get him on his feet.”

Mickey clenched his fists. “I am his family.”

“You’re a shit talkin’ thug from his old neighborhood, who can’t let go. Open your eyes—he’s outgrown you. You’ll only hold him back.”

Just like that, it knocked the wind from his sails, and a familiar emptiness percolated at the pit of his stomach. It was one thing to have those thoughts festered in the trenches of his mind. It was something else to have an outside perspective amplify his greatest insecurities.

Iggy sauntered up the pathway, sending a suspicious glare at the man glowering beside his brother. A blonde boy squealed on his hip. “Papa!”

“Hey, little man.” Mickey murmured, emotion welling in his eyes as Yevgeny wrapped himself around his father’s neck. “Missed you.”

“Can we go home now?” The little boy queried.

Mickey glanced from Ortiz to Iggy, landing at the doors of the military hospital with a pang of grief.

“Yeah, buddy. It’s time to go home.”


	18. He's Got Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian faces a fresh diagnosis. Family pulls together. Mickey loves his redhead.

It parched Ian, being hospitalized. Mouth dry, as if he’d been chewing cotton and not much else. The walls were bare, furniture too. They had removed coat hangers from the oak closet. A desk without a chair sat at the foot of his threadbare bed. The curtains were a distracting polyester, an undecipherable abstract pattern being the only vibrancy in the room. His bathroom was the most disconcerting. It had a shower, but no door or drape. A nozzle fixed two inches from the wall that poured onto the open floor, the same one that housed the toilet and sink. The drain flooded the bathroom, ankles deep in what he imagined being bacteria from the spaces of the surrounding porcelain.

Until they admitted him, he was unaware their hospital had a psych unit. It was a rarity that he stepped foot into the building at all, his health was stable all things considered. An unfamiliar doctor explained to him he was exhibiting symptoms of bipolar, but all he focused on was an earlier diagnosis. Iron deficiency.

Ian found it silly. It reminded him of his incident back home, fainting at the sight of his own blood. He wondered if anemia was the reason for it. He understood that his lack of energy tied into a potential mental illness, but he fixated on that one specific ailment as if it was more paramount than a lifelong mood disorder.

Wrapping his head around his body's inability to produce enough substance in red blood cells also helped divert him from his thoughts about Mickey.

They took away his phone, and the room didn’t have a calendar or any identifiers of time, not even a rudimentary clock. The ache in his chest told him it had been some time since Mickey had been to visit. Who wanted to sit around and watch their boyfriend climb the jagged walls of psychosis? But to say it didn’t hurt was a lie. If he wasn’t already crazy, the lack of exposure to the outside world would do it.

“How’re you feeling?” Sgt. Ortiz asked, sliding a chair inside the room from the hallway. “You look brighter today.”

Ian squinted against the haze of medication. “Brighter? You my fuckin’ shrink now?”

“Sorry, dude. Don’t know what to say.”

“Yeah, well—join the club.” Ian muttered. “What day is it?”

“Friday. You’ve been here almost a week. I check in every day but you’re usually asleep.”

“Where’s Mickey?”

Ortiz seemed offended by the deflection. “Hasn’t been around. Left after your first day.”

“What did you do?” Ian’s brain was imbalanced, but he wasn’t an imbecile.

“Why do you assume I did something? It freaked him out. Needed to take care of his kid, I think.”

“If you told him to leave, we’re gonna have a serious problem.”

“I said nothing, but even if I did, he’s a big boy. Makes his own decisions.”

He couldn’t argue with that, and it was agitating. Mickey wasn’t the type to do as others wished unless it involved his father or a probation officer. “When are they letting me out of here?”

“Any day now. We miss you out there. Got some fresh meat that could use your guidance.”

Ian cringed. If he never saw a new soldier in basic training again, it would be too soon. “Can you get someone in here to talk about my paperwork? I wanna change my emergency contact list. Next of kin, shit like that.”

“I can call your family—I don’t mind, they’ve been trying to visit you. Your brother has a colourful history with the law and your sister had some run in with a drug and child endangerment charge ages ago. Lots of hoops to jump.”

“Hey Emilio?”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t want you to call my family. I want to change my documents so they don’t try calling my irresponsible fucking mother the next time my life is in danger.”

Ortiz leaned back, gritting his teeth. “I’ll get someone in here.”

The door shut with a heavy clang.

Nausea had him dry heaving, stumbling to the bathroom just in time to spill what contents he had choked down hours earlier.

It exhausted him. To sleep all day was as much a choice as being sick.

\----------

Heavy metal music vibrated Mickey’s door. Fiona was sure to knock with ferocity. She hadn’t heard from him all week, and when she stopped by Kash and Grab, Linda gave her some lame explanation about his additional responsibilities keeping him bound to the office and dull meetings with local suppliers. She knew better.

“What?” Mickey grumbled, rubbing the deep shadows under his eyes.

“We’re driving up to visit Ian, they’re supposed to let him out tonight.”

“Good for you,” he said, turning on his heel. “Don’t mind the flower graveyard. Haven’t gotten around to tossing them out yet—want a drink?”

“No thanks. Where’s Yev?”

“Daycare. Linda gave me an advance—got him into one of those Montessori places. Learn through natural interests and all that bullshit. Might stand a chance now.”

“What do you mean?” She asked, self hatred leaking from his pores along with last night’s Jack Daniels.

“Can’t escape the Milkovich name. At least he’ll have some smarts.”

“Alright,” she huffed, disappearing into the washroom to turn on the shower. “That’s enough. You and I both know you are the furthest thing from unintelligent. Clean yourself up. We leave in an hour.”

“I’m not coming to Missouri.”

“Like hell you’re not,” Fiona stated, digging through his laundry basket for a towel before pressing it against his chest. “Pull yourself together. Where’s your shaving stuff?”

“You’re not my mother. I can take care of myself thanks.”

She found a fresh razor in his cluttered bathroom drawer, ignoring his cynicism. “Here. The beard is only cute when you’re not boiling yourself alive in misery.”

Mickey dragged a thumb across his browbone. “Why are you so pushy, huh?”

“I’ve spent my entire life raising testosterone poisoned boys. If I didn’t push, you’d all be waist deep in half empty beer bottles and self loathing.”

She stomped into the living room, using an empty basket to collect stray bottles of Budweiser littered throughout his apartment. He’d been slowing down on his liquor consumption since Svetlana left. Alcohol was a favourable Southside crutch that she wished she could save them all from, but it was no surprise to witness the display of gradual destruction. 

Rinsing each bottle and tossing them into the recycling bin, she pondered Ian’s circumstances. The medical professional she spoke to informed her that the army was granting him time off, and he would need a stable environment. She didn’t want him to be alone in his barracks, but she didn’t want him coming home to drama either. If Monica was any sign, stress reduction was essential. It applied to Mickey, too. He’d been balancing more than his share of trauma for far too long.

Fiona washed a sink full of dishes, scrubbing his countertops clean. If she wasn’t so busy cleaning up after her family, she might turn a profit running a maid service.

“You don’t have to do this. Sorry for the mess,” Mickey said, a whiff of body wash trailing behind him.

“You’ve done nothing wrong. It happens to the best of us.”

He nodded. “Is he okay?”

“Ian?”

“Yeah—tried texting him a couple times, but he hasn’t responded.”

Fiona pulled out her phone, handing it to Mickey, displaying a text from an unknown number.

_**Ian is experiencing paranoia. He has displayed symptoms consistent with PTSD. We are working toward a treatment cocktail that will help diminish that. He has a poor appetite, but requested cheese cake after lunch today, which is progress. He asks for Mickey multiple times a day. We are not sure what to tell him, please advise. This subject seems to be upsetting to him.** _

“Fuck,” Mickey groaned.

“I understand coming back for work, but something tells me that’s not it. What happened?”

“I dunno. Guess I wigged out.”

She shook her head. “You wouldn’t stay away from Ian if I chained you to a truck and drove you to New Zealand. Try again.”

Hands gripping one of Yevgeny’s toy trucks, he tried to explain. “Ian’s got this—douchebag army friend.”

“Friend?”

“With benefits, I guess.”

“ _Of course_. Continue,” she said, rolling her eyes heavenward.

“Says I’m not good for Ian.”

Fiona clenched her fists. “Oh? Sounds like jealous trash to me. Do you believe him?”

“I mean, kinda hard not to. Ian fucked off and joined those clowns because of me.”

“He did not join the army _because_ of you. He’s wanted to be in that world since he was a little kid. Ian left the way he did because, like the rest of us, he had no clue how to deal with his emotions. We’ve all tucked tail and run a time or two.”

“I just figured out where the detergent goes in the washing machine. I was a shitty husband. Don’t know how to take care of anybody.”

“So learn,” she said. “You think I knew how to do the laundry when I was nine and had to take over for Frank and Monica? No. I used Dawn the first time, flooded the kitchen with foam. The little kids thought it was a blast, but I had to shovel that shit out the door all afternoon.”

“Ian isn’t laundry. He needs more than I understand how to deal with.”

“We’re also not kids anymore, Mickey. The only people holding us back are the ones we see when we look in the mirror. I’m not saying you have to be there for Ian. If this isn’t a healthy path for you, I understand. It’s going to be difficult for a while. Maybe for the rest of your lives. But I don’t want you to back out because you think you don’t have what it takes.”

She watched him battle the demons nattering at him between his ears. You don’t spend your childhood sensing that you’re not enough, just to ridicule another for the same infliction. 

“Do I bring Yevgeny?”

“I think so. If you want Ian to be a part of your life, you gotta blend the two. It’s important for Yev to see these parts of my brother.”

He hesitated. “Because Ian’s going to be his step dad, right?”

“That’s right, if that’s the role you want him to play.”

Mickey left for his bedroom, returning with a backpack slung over his shoulder. “Let’s go then. The fuck are we waitin’ for?”

\----------

Many things were up in the air, but Missouri becoming Mickey’s least favourite place on earth was concrete. Fiona loaded her SUV with the Gallaghers, Carl deciding to ride shotgun in Iggy’s hooptie. He spent most of his time at his girlfriends’ house, focused on West Point, but missing a trip to see his brother was unfathomable. The only reason he hadn’t been to see him at the hospital was the fear of adding to the overbearing crowd.

Iggy liked Carl for the same reason Mickey did. They both saw a piece of themselves in the kid. To grow up sometimes meant growing apart, and more often than not, Carl came to them asking for advice. They never breathed a word of it. Everyone needed someone they could divulge their secrets to behind the scenes. In a different life, they figured Carl would have fit in like a glove in the Milkovich house. To peel back his military goals, meant to expose a thug, much like any of the kids raised on S. Trumbull Ave.

“Ian’s not answering my texts,” Carl said. “You guys heard from him?”

“Nah. Don’t think he has his phone,” Iggy explained, cranking his window down. “My ex got tossed in the nut ward once. They took all her shit.”

“Weird. I always thought hospitals on base would be different.”

Iggy tossed an empty water bottle over his shoulder. “Who knows? Don’t help the guy, seein’ all the fucked up shit happening in the world.”

Carl shrugged. “You hear what they said about the attacker?”

“What’d they say?” Mickey asked, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up at the mention of that gruesome night.

“He was one step away from PV2. Finishing up basic training. Fucker lost his shit,” Carl winced. “All the psych evals, and nobody caught it. Scary shit.”

Mickey braced as a wave of vertigo seeped in, squeezing his eyes shut until it passed. “Hope that piece of shit rots behind bars.”

The others hummed in agreement, Iggy turning up the radio to drown out the worrisome thoughts being shared in silence between them.

As he approached the hospital doors, it prepared Mickey to face scrutiny. He’d was off his game last time. Nobody could convince him he was a less secure option than the very ground Ian got shot on. He was ready to stand his ground against anyone looking for confrontation, most of all that jockstrap ex fling of Ian’s.

He wasn’t astounded to see Sgt. Dickhead, among others milling about outside Ian’s room. The real shocker came when Ortiz reached for Fiona’s arm when she tried to enter.

“Hello—I’m Emilio. You must be Fiona. Ian’s told me a lot about you.”

“You his doctor?”

His eyes fired daggers over her shoulder at Mickey. “Uh—no. Close friend.”

“I don’t take to close friends of my brothers touching me. You’d do well to remember that.” Fiona retorted as she held out her arm, ushering Mickey to take it.

He looped his arm around hers, playing it up as if escorting her around was his life purpose. “Sorry, _Emilio_. It’s a family thing.”

\----------

The sight of a familiar redhead smothered the elation fizzling inside him. Slumped over the side of the bed, Ian was disconsolate. Monica had desensitized his siblings to a degree, but the devastation was apparent in their quiet expressions.

It wasn’t until Mickey spoke that he bothered lifting his head.

“Hey Gallagher. Sorry I’m late,” he whispered.

Clouded green eyes darted up in an instant. “ _Mickey_. I’m sorry I couldn’t call you—they have my phone. I told the nurses I needed to talk to you so many times. This place is the worst—”

Mickey smoothed a hand across Ian’s shoulder. “We’re okay, I’m not upset. I missed you.”

Ian pushed off the bed to his feet, locking his arms around the only thing that made sense in an otherwise murky situation. Mickey let Ian's strong body collapse into him, wanting nothing more than to take the man with him.

Debbie cleared her anxious throat. “Ian—I’ve been so—well, it’s good to see you.”

Ian peered up from the crook of Mickey’s neck. “Hey Debs. I’m glad you’re here. It’s nice to see all of you.”

Mickey stepped aside, but the redhead clutched to him until the last minute. The traditional suffocating Gallagher group hug began, and for once it didn’t make him squirm. Family, he thought, wasn’t so bad. His eyes dragged across the room, and it all seemed so empty. Void of any apparent function. It didn’t represent the overall appearance of the hospital.

“Food any good?” Fiona asked.

Ian groaned with obvious revulsion. “Not hungry. Meds have my head foggy—can’t keep anything down, anyway.”

“What’re they givin’ you?”

“Not sure, a few things. Lithium.”

“Shit,” Lip huffed. “We have full bottles of that lying around the house. Monica never took hers.”

The corner of Ian’s mouth quirked up. “I’m understanding why.”

A military doctor entered the room, requesting a chat with the family out in the hall. Mickey opted to stay behind. Anything the man had to say about Ian’s health could wait. They had spent more than enough time apart. Ian sat cross legged on the bed, gazing up at Mickey through his lashes. He couldn’t help but notice a sadness there, almost a droop in his otherwise lively eyes. The bed crinkled with the sound of plastic, and the muffled noise in the halls was eerie.

“Exceptional digs, eh?” Ian joked with subdued demeanor.

“Fi thinks they’re letting you out tonight.”

Ian gave a weak nod.

“You okay with that?” Mickey asked.

“Where’s Yevgeny?”

“Iggy has him. They’re playing outside. I can call them in.”

“No—I don’t want to freak him out.”

“You won’t. He’d like to see you,” Mickey said with a gentle smile. “It’d be cool if you spent more time with him, when you’re feeling up to it.”

“You want that?” Ian tilted his head with wide eyes. “Even now?”

“Yeah, man. I want lots of things.”

“Like what?”

“Like—I dunno. Everything. You haven’t even seen my apartment yet.”

The redhead balked, letting out a deep sigh. “I’m sick.”

Mickey joined him on the bed, shuffling backward to make room for Ian on his lap. His long body curled up with ease, withered at Mickey’s fingertips. Ian’s hair was curling, growth tickling the backs of his ears. It made Mickey think of the boy he knew. The one he would spend the rest of his life offering his heart to on a silver platter.

“You’ll get better,” Mickey murmured. “I got your back, Red.”

“I don’t know who I am anymore.”

Holding Ian close was all he could do to keep from falling apart. He spent years with that same conundrum weighing on his back. “We’ll figure that out together, okay?”

“You’re the crazy one,” Ian snuffled.

“Maybe. I showed up at Cook County to tell Terry off.”

Ian shifted in his lap. “Holy shit. He could’ve hurt you, Mick. Why would you do that?”

“’Cause I was sick of livin’ under his thumb. That prick has robbed me blind my entire life, and I let him. I’m not gonna stand for it anymore,” Mickey said. He ran his fingers over Ian’s cheek, soothing the lines of concern from his face. “And ‘cause I fuckin’ love you.”

Warm tears soaked through his jeans as Ian’s pent-up emotions slipped across his cheeks. Terry locked them both in a cage the day he caught them together. Little did they know, Mickey held the key all along.

“I love you too.”

\----------

They released Ian with a hefty diagnosis of bipolar l, acute mania with psychotic features. Strong recommendations for med compliance as well. His command approved 30 days of convalescent leave. It meant that they’d pay him his regular salary, and he was still an active member serving in the army. It was bittersweet, as it ran against the processing MEB that would decide what he already knew. Honorable discharge was inevitable. His time as a respected Sergeant with near limitless potential for expansion would end.

It was a diagnosis he saw creeping up over the horizon, but he thought he would have more time. His siblings offered nothing more than empathy, and it’s what was best. Once again, he didn’t have the answers they needed anyhow.

Fiona offered to drive him to the barracks, so he could grab a few things. Weeks in a hospital bed, with unfamiliar surroundings, had him aching for a walk. He agreed to meet everyone there, walking hand in hand with Mickey, and much to his jubilance, Yevgeny. Iggy trailed in the car behind, sharing a cigarette with Carl. Ian was eager, but his body was in a state of fatigue. If he needed to stop, they had an attainable back-up plan.

They passed the library. Melancholy burned inside him. There were libraries in the civilian world, though none of them held the years of trauma he’d experienced like the one he came to treasure. Mickey must have known because he squeezed Ian’s hand twice. One for _I see you’re hurting_ , and another for _I’m right here_.

Yevgeny chirped when they approached the motor pool, flailing his arms to show Ian as if it were for the first time. It made the quick goodbye seem hopeful. There were other beautiful things waiting for him outside the gates, and alongside a deep ache of sorrow, was a seed of new beginnings.

When they reached the barracks, his family was already busy exploring the grounds. He realized his last genuine moments as a soldier were their first encounters with it. Liam played frisbee with a group still donned in their combat uniforms, while Debbie enjoyed the view, not biased in her preferences. Ian may come to have more in common with her than he realized. And with that, another droplet of hope.

Many soldiers showed Ian respect by offering well wishes, and brotherly pats on the back. He expected that Mickey would step off to the side, but he didn’t. Their hands untangled only for him to take part in a proper embrace or handshake, before entwining again.

The afternoon painted the skies a stunning sorbet, as the sun began its descent on the most prominent chapter of his life so far. Instead of running home for reprieve, the people he loved most were there to guide him back, and he clung to the notion that they wouldn’t let him fall alone.

“Everyone is real nice,” Fiona beamed.

Ian felt a grin split his face. “You should head over to the chow hall, grab something to eat. Ask for Melissa, let her know it’s on me.”

“Don’t you want some help with your room?”

“Nah, you guys could use a good meal. Go—I’ll be fine,” Ian insisted.

“What about _my_ hunger?” Mickey teased. “If you want me fed, you gotta let go of my hand, big guy.”

“Grab a plate for Mick, ‘kay?” Ian requested, chuckling at the telling nods. He wasn’t ready to let go.

\----------

A blast of lemon hit their faces, Ian heading straight for the shower. Mickey got to work collecting what he assumed to be the most important comfort items the redhead would need in the meantime. He scoured through his drawers, packing up his clothes. Ian had made his bed to perfection, so he lay the duffle bag on the floor, allowing Ian the status quo.

Inside a storage bin, he stumbled upon his letters. He tucked those into the duffle bag without reluctance. Mickey planned to read each one, but beyond that, he had unfinished business to atone to. All in good time.

As he moved into the bathroom to collect his toiletries, Ian stood with a towel around his waist, finger skimming the newest sore on his body. Somewhere along the way he’d torn the stitches to his bullet wound, the military doctors doing their part in fixing him up.

“You got a medkit?” Mickey asked.

“Under the sink, behind the white bin.”

“Want me to put a fresh bandage on it for you?”

Ian pressed a soft kiss to his forehead. “I got it. Thanks for getting my stuff together. Mind leavin’ out my toothbrush? Tastes like I’ve got fuzz growing on my teeth.”

“You bet. Anything in particular you want me to grab?”

“There’s a bin at the foot of my bed—something in there I want you to have.”

Mickey clicked his tongue. “Already got it, Sergeant.”

Ian’s eyes glistened, chewing on his trembling lip as he settled in front of the mirror to clean himself up. Mickey kissed the spot between his shoulder blades, continuing his search for fragments of Ian’s daily routines. He was tidy, much more than Mickey cared to attain in his own habits. Most of what he enjoyed was in plain sight. Ian wasn’t a hoarder by any means. Heat crackled inside his chest at petty arguments over his messy tendencies, and how Ian might dust places he hadn’t thought to clean. A realm where they debated on lavender versus lemon cleaning supplies, and if Mickey wasn’t home to let him in, there’d be no rush to get back, because Ian would have a key too.

“How do I look?” Ian asked, coltish from rinsing the recent weeks from his body.

“Handsome as fuck, is how you look—not nearly as batty as before.”

“Shut up,” he laughed. “You try self care when your head feels like mashed carrots.”

“Carrots, eh?”

“I still got it, Milkovich. You can’t outwit me.”

“We’ll see ’bout that. Way I figure it, I have about six thousand letters to read—one hundred percent of them bound to be cringy as fuck. You won’t have the wherewithal to keep up with the barbs that shit will produce.”

“Those are some big words, Mick. I’m impressed. You callin’ my undying affection for you cringy as fuck?” Ian asked, setting his brows in mock displeasure. “You’re gonna regret that.”

“Am I?”

A loud procession of rattling bangs jolted them back to reality.

“What the fuck?” Mickey croaked as he threw the door open.

Iggy’s chest swelled. “Gotta come quick, man. We got into trouble.”

“Trouble?” Ian huffed, gripping his chest in panic.

“Sorry to freak you out, nothin’ like that. It’s bad though. Carl decked that Ortiz asshole in the mouth. It ain’t pretty. They called the MP’s.”

Ian rushed to lace up his boots.

Mickey smirked.

“ _Fuckin’ Gallaghers_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this already goes without saying, but I don't personally view mental illness as crazy. I try to translate how I think the characters would react.


	19. You Can Take the Boy Out of the Southside...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Gallagher's defend Mickey's honor. Mickey steps up for them in return. Ian makes it home. Smut and miscommunication.

Emilio Ortiz, much like Ian, spent an almost deleterious amount of time with his nose in a book. He was eloquent in his speech when he wanted to be, and the literature supplied him with a healthy dose of romanticism, but it also prevented him from noticing his limitations where he would benefit from a little introspection. It put him in harm’s way more often than Ian had the means to track. 

A miscalculated attempt to bond with the Gallaghers at the expense of Mickey’s reputation was one of those regretful, poorly calculated moments.

He caught up with them just outside the Chow Hall, as they were sharing a post meal cigarette. Fiona wasn’t interested in his antics, but Carl tolerated him long enough to get a read on the man. Perhaps he had his own agenda at first, hopeful to make connections within the military where possible. His motives changed at the first sign of disrespect.

“I’m glad they have a diagnosis. Ian’s been acting reckless for a while now. It worried me. Had to convince him not to impulse buy one of those new Dodge Chargers a couple weeks back.” Ortiz said, as though he took on more of a caregiver role than they realized. “It’s awful, what he’s going through. I hope he dumps his bad choices.”

“What bad choices would those be?” Lip asked, sizing the man up. “Buying himself a nice car after skirting bullets in the dirt seems like an alright decision.”

“I guess, but it was more the impulse thing. I’ve always known him to think with logic. No coincidence that he snaps after going home—not saying it’s you guys—just some grievances from his past.”

Iggy slid Yevgeny off his shoulders, handing him to Debbie. “Fuck you talkin’ about?”

The men made steadfast eye contact. “I’m not trying to judge him or whatever. But you know—sometimes we move backwards toward the shit we shouldn’t.”

“Alright,” Fiona placated. “We appreciate that you seem to care for him, but we’ve got it from here.”

It was too late. Iggy was like a dog with a bone. “So, when you say grievances from his past—”

“Iggy—” Lip warned.

“Nah, I’m curious is all. That got anything to do with Mick?”

The faint resemblance clicked, and Ortiz shifted on his feet. “He’s violent. Had a run in with him the first time he came around. Ian’s not that person anymore. I don’t mean to offend anyone—it’s just that he deserves a stable crowd y’know? There’s no world where that guy he’s mixed up with isn’t a ticking bomb.”

Liam and Debbie took initiative to venture to a nearby play structure with the littlest Milkovich. They smelled a battle of egos from a mile away.

“Mick ain’t violent, unless some jacked up prick gives him motive.” Iggy stated, shuffling toward the other man before poking the nametag on his camouflage jacket. “You give him motive, _Ortiz_?”

The soldier scoffed. “This is what I’m talking about! Guess that hillbilly shit runs in the family.”

By the time Iggy’s fist clenched, Carl had already thrown the man back with a staggering left hook. Fiona’s shrill gasp hit the air as Lip tried to intervene. He separated the men for just long enough to see the rage in Carl’s eyes, before the boy was back on the Sergeant. A squelch of knuckles on flesh drew enough blood to garner attention from passersby.

Melissa jogged from the kitchen, pulling Fiona aside. “Someone called the MP’s. You guys need to get out of here.”

“Thanks for the heads up.” Fiona said with an ireful sigh. “Iggy—go get Mick and Ian. We gotta split.”

\----------

The men made it to the hall as two irate military police officers stalked across the street in their direction. The bloodied soldier was back on his feet, clutching his jaw in his hand.

Ian winced, muttering under his breath. “What the fuck happened, Carl?”

“Nothing. It was self defense.” Carl said. It was a half truth, and a loose one at that. “Dude’s a real asshole.”

“What’s going on here?” A disgruntled officer barked. “We got a call about an alleged assault.”

Ortiz spilled his side of the story through a muffled hand, skipping the parts where he aggravated the situation and moving to the attack. The officer unhooked the handcuffs from his belt. Mickey stepped in front of the younger Gallagher.

“Come on, man. You and I both know there’s no way this scrawny kid took down that fucker. He’s covering for me. I hit that piece of shit.”

“That true?” The cop quizzed, glaring at Ortiz before scanning the rest of their faces.

“Not sure, Officer.” Lip shrugged, moving next to Mickey. “We didn’t see much—except that Mr. Ortiz over there threw the first punch.”

Ortiz flailed his free arm. “He’s lying!”

Ian shook his head to keep from laughing. “This is a misunderstanding. My family had nothing to do with this.”

“Ian, you can’t be serious. What’s happening to you?”

“Oh, I don’t know, Emilio. It must be the years of getting shot at, only to come home and take a bullet to my stomach because some fucker didn’t do their job. Then again, I am a nutcase.” Ian said, slinging his arm over Mickey’s shoulder. “Either way, we don’t want any trouble. We’re just trying to get home.”

Mickey looked up at Ian with a toothy grin, leaning into his touch.

The officers stepped aside to have a hushed conversation, Ortiz sending a pained gaze at Ian. The group glanced around at each other with wide eyes, Lip mumbling something about buying Mickey a beer if they didn’t all wind up behind bars. To Emilio’s chagrin, the officers dismissed them from the sidewalk interrogation under one condition.

“We don’t want to see you around here again.”

They directed the message at Mickey, but they all took the hint and scattered to find the rest of their clan.

Lip shoved Mickey with his shoulder. “You sure you’re not a Gallagher?”

Mickey grinned. “Nah, I’m a fuckin’ Milkovich, hands down.”

\----------

Ian slept most of the way back to Chicago.

A late night breeze slipped through cracks in the windows, faded headlights doing just enough to break up the darkness on the freeway. Iggy kept the radio off, popping in an old classic rock tape he found under the driver’s seat. He kept the volume low, checking on the redhead and his brother in the rear-view mirror. He couldn’t help but admire the way Mickey watched over Ian, like he was ready for any unforeseen challenge. His younger brother wasn’t everyone’s cup of tea, but his loyalty was unparalleled. He would take the fall for the people he cared for, even when he had plenty to lose in doing so. Iggy wished society saw Mickey the way he did. Ian’s instincts were right on the money, falling for him. It would never be easy, but he would always care for Ian.

“Thanks for what you did back there.” Carl said, twisting in the passenger seat. “That could have gone terrible for me.”

“I got your back, kid.”

With a grateful nod he asked, “Why did you do it?”

It was instinctual. He had put no thought into it before he stepped up. Mickey pondered for a few beats. “Ian needs you guys right now—besides, an assault charge wouldn’t look so good on your army transcript, would it?”

Ian grumbled. “Where are we?”

“Almost home, man. We’ll be back at your place soon.”

He queried through heavy eyelids. “Can I stay with you tonight?”

Iggy raised his brows and Mickey rolled his eyes at him through the mirror. His older sibling had a remarkable way of saying _I told you so_ without words.

“You sure that’s what you want? I work tomorrow—won’t be back until late.”

Ian whispered. “I want to be with you, even if it’s just for the night.”

“That’s cool with me, just gotta convince your sister. She’s been real worried about you.”

Mickey squeezed the redhead’s hand as his stare became vacant and the conversation faded. He understood that Ian’s medication could cause him to withdraw as his brain adjusted to the chemicals. Still, it was a reflex to clasp to what it left of the man sitting beside him. Before he opened his mouth to disrupt the quiet, Ian piped up again.

“Wait, working late at Kash and Grab? Did Linda extend the hours or something?”

Mickey flinched. He still had mentioned nothing about his new job at the club. At the rate things were going, he wasn’t sure the timing was right. “I’m um—taking on more.”

Ian studied him with furrowed brows, suspicion weighing in his response. “Oh. That’s good, right?”

“More money in my pocket. It’s tough as hell making ends meet the legal way. Sometimes it doesn’t seem worth it.”

Iggy snorted. “Until you end up in the slammer.”

“Doesn’t stop you, does it?”

“Eh, someone’s gotta uphold our spot in the crime syndicate. Birthright and all that.”

Carl shook his head. “This neighborhood wouldn’t be the same without a Milkovich slangin’ drugs.”

Ian shoved his sibling from the back seat, motioning to Yevgeny who was by the grace of all things Holy, fast asleep. “Little ears, bro. Watch your mouth.”

It was a welcomed sneak peek at what Ian would be like as a father. Mickey wasn’t about to jump the gun, but if he had the ability to parent Yevgeny while he was three sheets to the wind on mood stabilizers, he looked forward to the coherent version.

\----------

Fiona hadn’t put up a fight, Ian’s desire to stay with Mickey was predictable. She offered to crash on the couch to help where needed, but they agreed to check in with each other the following day, and that was satisfactory for the bone-tired family.

Iggy had no concern with overstepping any boundaries. He walked them up to the apartment, brushing Yevgeny’s teeth before tucking the boy into bed. Mickey nodded in gratitude, as his brother rattled Ian’s pills in his direction, illustrating where he intended to leave them.

“I’ll keep my phone on,” Iggy stated, giving his brother a languid side hug. “Y’all need me, I’ll be here quick.”

Then there was stillness. A sleeping child, and a suite of wilted lilies were the only distractions from the veracity of their senses. They were alone together, in the home Mickey shared with his son, and the circumstances were not at all what either man expected.

“Did you, um—wanna watch a movie?” Mickey asked, fidgeting with the finicky remote, batteries held in place by a strip of electrical tape. “I got some of those Van Damme flicks you like—most from the nineties, a couple from the eighties, I think.”

Ian didn’t speak, only gave a sultry grin the further his boyfriend spun himself into a web of nerves.

“We could read—I think Iggy left something by Stephen King under the bathroom sink. Too intense though, right? I’m guessin’ he doesn’t do the love thing. Is it awkward to read in the same room? I could read it to you—”

Green eyes blinked at him, teeth raking over the smirk on his dry, freckled lips.

“Oh!” Mickey clapped, “you must be starving.”

“I am.”

“What’re you in the mood for? I’m not much of a culinary expert, but I—”

“You.”

Mickey wiped his palms against his face. “Me, what?”

“You asked what I’m in the mood for,” Ian whispered, leaning forward on the couch. “I want you—on my lap, riding me.”

His heart thumped in his throat, and he tried to swallow it down, but it was thick, much like the reaction happening behind the zipper of his pants. “You sure you’re up for that?”

“You tell me,” Ian said, widening his position on the couch until his crotch was on full display.

“ _Fuck_ , Gallagher.”

“I’ve wanted to take you on this couch since you sent me all those pictures. Made me a little jealous, though.”

“Why—jealous of what?” Mickey stammered.

“I thought maybe someone already had. I don’t enjoy thinking about you with anyone else.”

Mickey’s heart rate increased, pressure building behind his eyes and at the tips of his fingers. “You’re the only one besides family that’s been here.”

“Why?” It was a demand, more than a question. The distance between them closed, as the redhead pushed up off the couch. “I want you to tell me.”

“Been waiting for your crazy ass, that’s why.”

A quiet whine slid through Ian’s parted lips before he lifted Mickey in one breath, bracing them together against the wall.

“Wrap your legs around me,” Ian whispered. “I want you right here.”

“Oh, so you can have a filthy mouth but when I talk dirty, all bets are off?” Mickey teased, leaning forward to suck Ian’s bottom lip. “You don’t play fair, Red.”

“I may be bigger, but we both know I’m the weaker man.”

They shared a breathy laugh between slotted lips as heat oscillated between them. Deep kisses told a story all about how much they missed each other, and how the universe was only in synchronicity when their bodies touched.

Mickey pulled back for air just long enough to moan, “You’re under my skin, man.” And with that, the dynamic shifted. It disarmed the redhead, at complete mercy of his lover.

It was beautiful in its shambolic nature. They learned how to move together again, enraptured by the vulnerability revealed by trembling hands. Safe to be who they needed to be, free to discover each other in all the ways the years had taken. They made love like an acrylic pour, dripping from the edges of a canvas. It didn’t last long, but it was art, strokes of black and red, blended to perfection.

\----------

Mickey had only ever shared his bed with Ian, but it had been many years, and when it happened it was so brief, it was a distant memory. They stood at either sides of the bedroom, cheeks still flushed from their earlier climax. Against the wall, and in the dugouts, was familiar. Orgasms spilling on the dirt beneath the bleachers at school, or hand jobs in the bathroom where they could hide, were distinguishable. Sex in his very own bed, Mickey thought, was something special. It was scary, maybe, that their bodies would tangle under the same blankets he sometimes jolted out of from a nightmare. To writhe and moan against the sheets he sweat into when the air conditioner stopped working or prop each other up with the pillows he drooled into, sent his nerves into overdrive. 

“You okay?”

“Yeah, I think so,” Mickey said with a shrug. “I feel kinda lame.”

“What for?”

“Didn’t wash the sheets.” He shifted in place, hoping to hide his embarrassment. “I don’t make my bed like you do, either. I kinda throw it together after laundry day, but I’ve never figured out how to get the wrinkles out—I don’t care about that stuff.”

Ian’s smile made something in his stomach twist.

“I don’t mind.”

“You do, though—your bed always looks like it’s cut from a military magazine.”

“It was an obligation, Mick. Before I joined, it was a miracle if I attached all four corners of my sheets to the mattress at all. I promise you it doesn’t bother me.”

Mickey pulled the blanket back. “Nothing matches, I get everything on sale.”

“Economical, I like that,” Ian chortled.

“I literally have pillowcases with pumpkins on them. They’re my only other set.”

Ian padded his way around the bed until he reached his anxious boyfriend. “Pumpkins are cute.”

“In the summer?”

“Sure.”

Mickey groaned, fussing with his browbone as he always did when his feelings superseded his ability to make sense of them. “I don’t have a car.”

“You’re in luck. I’ve been in the market for a new one—if I can ever convince you to sleep in this bed with me, we can get up early and go shopping.”

“I’m not letting you buy me a car, man.”

“First, it would be ours. Second—I’m not taking orders from a gangster with pumpkins on his pillowcases.”

If Ian wasn’t a recent gunshot victim, Mickey might’ve jabbed him in his torso. “Funny guy, huh?”

“I like your apartment,” he said as his fingers found their way into dark hair. “What I’ve seen of it, anyway. It smells like you, and the toys all over the carpet work well with the overall vibes you’ve got going.”

“It’s a dump.”

“Not even close—Fiona told me you’ve been transforming this place.”

“I can’t even afford the rent. Your sister gave me a—”

A kiss stopped him in his tracks, insecurities evaporating as Ian grabbed his hands, placing them against his chest. Tingles skated across the surface of his scalp to his toes, as their tongues entangled. Ian mumbled against his neck, “You don’t give yourself enough credit.”

“I need to take care of you, Ian. I wanna be able to do it right.”

Resting at the edge of the bed, weary from recent days and a system full of chemicals, the redhead locked eyes with glossy blue. “We take care of each other, Mick. That’s what love is all about. I don’t care if you don’t make your bed or ride your bike to work.”

“Don’t got a bike, either.”

“Stop—you know what I mean.”

Mickey shuffled between Ian’s legs, the pads of his thumbs drifting across pale skin, pressing small circles along the planes of his face. “The sheets suck, but I wasn’t bullshitting when I said the mattress is comfy as fuck. Lay down, man. You look exhausted.”

“I’ll take the couch, if you’re not ready.”

“No,” Mickey blurted, huffing out a ragged breath. “Want you here with me.”

Ian seized the opportunity with the last of his energy, yanking Mickey down on top of him. They made the mattress of marshmallow clouds, releasing a burst of Mickey’s scent like a fragrance only the most lavish men could afford.

“Make love to me.”

Mickey nuzzled the tender spot behind Ian’s ear, nipping a kiss on warm skin. “You need rest, man.”

“Rest can wait. I wanna see the look in your eyes when I fill you with come.”

“Jesus, Gallagher. You sure they’re givin’ you the right meds? Thought this shit wiped you out.”

“Guess you’re just that good,” Ian grinned. “Get on me.”

Mickey feigned a pout. “Hey—that’s my thing, get your own thing.”

“Alright, alright. Ride me, baby.”

“ _Baby_?” Mickey scoffed, grabbing a bottle of lube from his bedside table. “No dice. I hate that.”

He coated his fingers enough to stretch himself out, one hand splayed on Ian’s shoulder as he worked. The redhead watched him like he was discovering a new species, or an overflowing treasure chest of golden cocks and rare pearls.

“I don’t have a pet name for you, I want one.” Ian murmured, cupping a hand on Mickeys hip, helping him rock on his fingers. “ _Fuck_ , that’s so hot Mickey.”

“That’s the one.”

“What is?”

“When you say my name like that. Wrecks me, man. Need nothing else.”

He moved to straddle Ian, guiding the head of his cock, sliding back until the redhead bottomed out. Their erections pulsed with the sensations, full and tight. Ian bit down on his knuckles to keep from crying out. Pleasure crashed through them with every thrust, a tremor each time Ian hit his swollen prostate at just the right angle. Mickey rubbed his cock with the rhythm, using the tip of his fingers to swipe the pre-cum from his slit. Ian quirked his brow, waiting to taste him. He shuddered when the redhead sucked the strings of arousal clean from his hand, hungry for more.

“So—good,” Ian panted. “Don’t hold back, ride my cock.”

“Gonna fuck me harder, Gallagher?”

Ian dug his fingers into Mickey’s thick thighs, their momentum shaking the bed until it squeaked. “I’m— _oh God_.”

“Say my name.”

“Mickey, _Mickey_. Fuck—”

Bursts of Ian’s hot come shot into him, overflowing into a sticky mess between them. Another thrust and Mickey unravelled, a forest fire burning in his legs, collapsing beside the wheezing redhead. Ian giggled, fucked out and flooded with endorphins. Before Mickey joined in, his phone vibrated across the dresser. On his way to the bathroom to clean up, he checked his inbox.

Ian’s tone changed.

“Who is it?”

“Huh? Oh. Nobody,” Mickey mumbled. “Gonna clean up, wanna join me?”

“Nah, I’m going cross-eyed. Throw me a towel and I’m all good—I’m half asleep already.”

Mickey obliged, tossing him his fluffiest bath sheet, amused at how resistant the redhead was to be making a mess of it. “If you pass out before I get back, I love you.”

\----------

Ian beamed as Mickey disappeared into the dark apartment. His head was a clusterfuck, but the fog cleared long enough for him to enjoy their intimacy, and that was all he could ask for from his condition.

Sweat stung his abdominal wound, the skin around it still sensitive to the touch. He was numb to it before, the only benefit he’d experienced with the current cocktail coursing through his veins. He wondered if he would always feel like a floating head, or if the fuzziness would dissipate for longer than twenty minutes at a time.

Against his body’s aching wishes, he got up and slid on a pair of sweatpants. Mickey’s fit him like he was expecting a flood, but they were soft. He checked up on Yevgeny, anxious that they might have been too loud in their late night activities.

The little boy was out cold, snoring the same way Mickey always had. Peaceful.

On his way back to the bedroom, Mickey’s phone buzzed again. He glanced toward the light, trying to deter his prying eyes, and failing. He wasn’t a controlling boyfriend, privacy was important. But curiosity had to lure the cat before it stripped one of its lives, and Ian still had at least six of them. 

The text was from someone called Marcus.

_**We miss you down here, Bluebird. Look forward to seeing your face at Fairy Tale soon. You’ve got quite a fan club. Hope you’re doing okay!** _

Ian read the message three times before it resonated. His daze intensified, trying to comprehend it. Mickey was the most loyal person he’d ever met. It didn’t add up, and yet, the proof was searing into his retina. He heard the water stop running in the shower and a surge of icy dread ran him over like a tank. 

Mickey was cheating.

His fist twitched as he tried to piece together his thoughts. They were still navigating their relationship, but Mickey was the one who made it official. Nausea churned somewhere below his bullet wound, a dizziness he couldn’t seem to blink away.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” Mickey asked, rushing to his aid. “Meds?”

His voice cracked as tears crept in. “How could you do this?”

“Do— _what_? What did I do?”

Mickey sounded so genuine. It shredded his heart. “Boys Town, Mick.”

“Fuck. I wanted to tell you, I swear. I didn’t wanna do it when you were going through so much shit.”

“Was this like a one-time thing?”

Mickey raked his fingers through wet hair. “A few nights a week.”

“Jesus Christ. How long? When did this start—Svetlana?” Ian pressed his hand to his throat, trying to calm his pulse.

“No. I didn’t need it with Svetlana. It was after we—you know, started hanging out again.”

Ian slouched on the bed, covering his eyes with his hands. “What the fuck am I supposed to do with that?”

“Sorry I didn’t tell you—it was awkward. I felt weird about it.”

“I bet.”

“If it bothers you, I can stop.”

“ _Are you kidding me right now_?”

“Look, I’ll quit okay? I might not need it now that you’re here anyway, right?”

“I’m in a bad dream. There’s no way we’re having this conversation. What is _wrong with you_?”

Mickey inched forward, his shoulders slumping when Ian jumped to his feet, stepping away from his touch. “Ian—I’m still learning, okay? The relationship thing is new to me. I won’t keep things from you anymore. I shouldn’t have hidden it to begin with.”

“Since when has cheating been fucking grey area, Mick?”

“Wait, _cheating_ —the fuck are you talking about? I’d never do that to you. I just needed the extra money.”

“Who the hell is Marcus then, Bluebird?”

“He’s a bartender—at the club I work at,” Mickey said, brows furrowed. “I lied in my interview. Told them I could mix drinks. He’s been helping me.”

“Oh.” If the floor could swallow him alive, he’d allow it.

“You thought I was messing around on you?”

Ian flopped backwards onto the mattress, begging the aliens to remove him from his humiliating existence, and toss him into the galaxy where he could float with all the other dense matter. “I read your stupid text message. It sounded—suspect.”

Mickey held his breath before obnoxious laughter erupted. “You’re one of _those_ , are you?”

Ian groaned, tossing up his middle finger for good measure.

“I never thought I’d see the day!”

“Oh my god, Mickey. _Cut it out_.”

“Nah, man. You’re possessive as shit. I’ve got a jealous fuckin’ boyfriend on my hands,” Mickey boasted, cackling as Ian reached back for a pillow to cover his face with. “You got soft, Gallagher. Years back you would have biffed me in the teeth for that one, soon as I came around the corner.”

“You’re lucky I’m medicated then, aren’t you?” He yelled it into the pillow, but it was so muffled it came across as endearing.

“Man, don’t hide your face. C’mere,” Mickey cooed, muscling his freckled forearm off the pillow, exposing two guilt ridden green eyes. “Go through my phone any time you like. I got nothing to hide from you, nothing like that anyway. I needed the paycheck, that’s it.”

“Marcus almost lost a limb.”

“Well thanks for keeping the crazy corked. He’s my only hope at gettin’ decent tips.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There may be some light angst from this point on, but we're reaching a much happier place with some fun times ahead.


	20. Southside Domesticity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian navigates his first day back. Mickey takes a big step.

Sleep was for pussies, Mickey decided. A conclusion he reached only after the hours sped by on his bedside alarm clock, without a morsel of rest. It wasn’t every night a Milkovich had a man in his bed, a gay Milkovich anyway. He drifted to thoughts of his father, and how exhilarating it would be to call him. He’d tell him about how the redhead he tried to scare away was taking up two-thirds of his bed, spread eagle, and that he loved every minute. Terry would hang up before he had the chance to twist the knife, but he chuckled to himself at the notion.

Ian was a restless sleeper. Medication and mental illness might play a role in that, but after Mickey had to retrieve his slice of the blanket for the fifteenth time, he marked it down as accurate reporting. It didn’t bother him half as bad as he expected. The redhead reached for him in an instinctive state, until it gratified him that the distance was secure, which turned out to be somewhere between one inch and a dog hair. At one point Mickey even tried his hand at forming a well-executed hypothesis, sliding further away to see how long it took the gap to fill.

Thirty seconds, on average. Ian would be on his belly, head on the pillow, riding the choo-choo train to dreamland, and if Mickey moved, it seemed composed in his DNA to do the same. It might become annoying after a while, if he planned to sleep again, but he was going to enjoy it while the attachment still made his blood run hot. Mickey wasn’t so far off. His mind and body too thrilled to do anything but absorb the moment. Sleep was inconsequential when saddled up against the prospect of seeing Ian in his most harmonious state.

There were no villains at his door, no Terry Milkovich. Just fluttering eyelids, and gentle quirks of his mouth and forehead. It was worth losing some basic motor function and adopting a longer day.

He didn’t spend all his time recording Ian’s sleep patterns. Mickey put some of it to good use researching mood disorders, bipolar in specific. The material he found online ranged from clinical to downright frightening, but the knowledge helped ease his fear. He was further prepared to handle the symptoms, however they may crop up. It frustrated him that there were no unambiguous answers. The mood disorder affected everyone in unique ways. It was one more thing that made Ian extraordinary, even if nobody else saw it the same way.

A remarkable number of people wrote about their personal encounters with the illness. The medical websites put the disorder into textbook perspective. Not the level of support he or Ian would need. He wanted to understand the nitty gritty parts. The things they didn’t write about in the DSM. Sure, he almost chewed his bottom lip raw at some stories, but mostly, he learned it was manageable with a proper treatment plan, no matter how scrambled his brain may be.

Ian would require someone to talk to outside of the family, a specialist who could monitor his symptoms and help him navigate his life as it ebbed and flowed. Despite his own apprehensions about therapy, it was important for him to be encouraging.

The redhead wanted to buy a new car, and who was he to deny a man a whiff of fresh leather, but finding a therapist in their city needed to be top priority.

“What time is it?” Ian yawned, nuzzling into his chest. “Didn’t think you’d be up before me.”

“Your brain still sets your internal clock to military life—it’s early.”

“Yeah. It’ll be awhile before that changes.”

Mickey liked the way his tattoos looked, splaying through Ian’s hair. “Can’t forget to take your meds at seven.”

Ian groaned through Mickey’s shirt, warm breath invigorating his skin. “Have you been to sleep?”

“Haven’t left the bed. Your clingy ass wouldn’t let me.”

“Were you able to fall asleep though?”

He wanted to lie, if for no other reason than to put Ian’s mind at ease, but he vowed to keep everything on the table. “I tried, but my mind wouldn’t shut off.”

Ian rubbed flakes from corners of his eyes, pushing up onto his elbow to get a better view. “You need rest. Did I keep you up? I can sleep on the couch next time, it’s no big deal.”

“It is a big deal, and who says there’s gonna be a next time?” Mickey teased, running his fingers over Ian’s stubble.

“I mean, you could cut me off now, but that’s nine fewer inches you’ll have in your bum.”

“Whoa—are you threatening me with withheld sexual favors? That’s just ruthless. Aren’t we supposed to get married before that shit happens?”

It slipped out of his mouth like a puck on ice, shocking them both. “Only one way to find out.”

“Easy, tiger. It was a figure of speech.”

Ian pawed at the bulge in his pants. “I think you’re full of it.”

“Oh yeah? What makes you say that?”

His athletic body rippled as he sat up to stretch, a view Mickey witnessed with tingling below his navel. “Well—you’re in love with me. Like, head over heels, best cock you’ve ever had, stay up all night watching me sleep in love.”

Mickey scoffed, wrestling him back down under the covers. “Hot shot, huh? Seems ironic coming from a dude with such rancid morning breath.”

“Say what you want, Mick. You don’t fool me. I know you wanna lock this cock down. I’m not the only one with a jealousy issue.”

“You always got such a mouth on you first thing in the mornin’?”

“Only when I get to wake up and see your handsome face.”

Mickey buried himself in Ian’s neck, his cheeks prickling with heat so intense he was certain the redhead would feel the blaze. “Corny, jealous, steals the entire bed _and_ all the blankets—I’ve got it made.”

“Shut up,” Ian chuckled, sinking a playful bite into the fleshy part of his shoulder. “I love you, Mickey.”

Ian tried to fight against slow blinks and the fog of fatigue. As much as Mickey wanted to pull him out of bed to start the day together, what he needed was lazy days curled up in the mattress where he could recover.

“Get some more shut eye, Red. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

\----------

His shift started in a few hours, but the thought of having to leave Ian made his joints sore, and his back ache. Agonizing over the unpredictable was an Olympic sport of the mental illness realm. He considered taking Ian with him to work, but it wasn’t in his best interest. Mickey sucked back a mug of coffee, firing off a text message to Linda, asking for more time off. He wouldn’t be able to miss another shift at the club, but at least it would buy him the day.

_**You got it. If you guys need anything, holler. Does Ian like chai tea frappes?** _

He wanted to tell her that nobody liked them, but that wasn’t the case. Customers took to the drink expansion so well, she considered bringing in slush machines. One more tedious thing he’d have to clean. Iced drinks and taquitos were becoming the drunk man’s currency in the neighborhood.

_**He doesn’t have an appetite, thanks though.** _

The day Linda marched to the beat of anyone else’s drum would be apocalyptic.

_**I’ll bring you guys some later. Lunch, too.** _

His phone coasted across the coffee table, gaze landing on Ian’s duffle bag. Mickey tried to picture the soldier with his cropped red hair, and pristine combat uniform, green bag draped over one shoulder. He imagined all the different places that bag had been, how many times he had to pack and haul it some place else. He wished they could have stayed connected, while Ian was away. They could have made it work, if just one of those letters landed in his hands.

_The letters_.

Mickey peeked into Yevgeny’s room, the little boy still wrapped in a deep slumber, before wandering down the hall to Ian, who had strewn himself across every edge of the mattress. He had a block of time that he intended to spend tempering his curiosity.

He grabbed the first letter he saw, taking a second to admire Ian’s penmanship. It was weird to adore so many things about a person, right down to the curves in their handwriting. 

With a deep breath, he slipped a piece of paper out of the envelope, flattening it before being swept away on a journey to the past.

_Dear Mickey,_

_Our commanders pulled out their best speech this morning, to remind us to “keep shit off our minds” and focus on the person to our left and right. I guess everyone is missing home. They repeat a lot of the same stuff, hoping we make it back to our families, and that we should remember to say our prayers. I don’t believe in the religion thing, but it’s comforting for a lot of the other guys. A buddy of mine died during the last tour. He didn’t believe in God until he was bleeding out in my arms. I wanted to know more about the Bible, just to help him through. The shit that happens out here is a test of character for sure. It’s rough where we are, but I don’t miss home like I used to. It was tougher during my first deployment._

_We did some more IED training today. I’m not phased anymore, but it has me wondering why we’re all out here to begin with. It doesn’t inspire confidence to see the destruction happening in some of these cities. I can’t give too much detail through my letters, but let’s just say I’ll be hearing explosions in my head for the rest of my life. It isn’t all bad. We do some humanitarian aid when we can, I like that part. Makes me want to help people more._

_Talk about unphased. My squad tried to watch a live birth over video chat a few nights ago, my buddy’s wife held off as long as she could. It was funny to see everyone crowding together over the shitty connection. Military wives are strong as hell. I can’t imagine having to raise a baby on my own. Wouldn’t mind a couple kids, though. One day, right? Nothing like a new life to bring some joy into a group of homesick dudes._

_I do a lot of driving out here, which is fun. Everywhere we go is a bumpy back road, so when we’re not being shot at, it’s a good time. It’s wild that these guys trust me with heavy machinery. Guess it’s hard to fuck up a Humvee. It put a random thought in my head. Have you ever been on a rollercoaster? Like a real one from a theme park or whatever? I’ve always wanted to ride one. The closest I got to an amusement park was overdosing on cotton candy and puking all over the place. I can’t stand the smell of it anymore. Debbie and Fiona used to buy this cotton candy body spray, I swear if I wasn’t gay before, that tipped me over the edge._

_Fuck, I miss you. It has been years, Mick. I still perk up when the mail comes around. I don’t think I’ll ever stop waiting for you. Daydreams about showing up on your porch still cross my mind, and just being able to touch you. If I would have known our last kiss would be it, I would have savoured it, kissed you longer._

_Imagine being born to a family that lets us do ridiculous things like ride rollercoasters together, feeding each other caramel apples, and spinning on the teacups until we can’t walk straight. I’d give anything to do that silly shit with you. Maybe in another life._

_Nobody will ever measure up to you._

_My first love._

_Ian._

Mickey clutched the letter in one hand, smoothing the dampness on his face with the palm of his other. He swiped at his trembling lip as emotions bubbled to the surface, threatening to gush from him like a hydroelectric dam.

He couldn’t pin point the details of what he was doing when Ian sent the letter. It was a fair assumption he was miserable and married, but he wished he remembered. Iggy was onto something, though. Ian’s words would have sent him into a spiral the likes of which nobody had ever undergone. He would have boarded every plane to the Middle East until he came across that flash of ginger hair at the first sign that Ian still cared for him.

“Started without me?” Ian asked with a sleepy smile. “How bad was it—on a scale of one to ten?”

Mickey sniffed, his throat tightening at the familiar burn in his chest. Ian dropped beside him, closing the gap by pulling him close. “Hey—you okay?”

“Fine.”

“You’re not fine. Talk to me, Mick.”

“Can’t.”

Ian strengthened his grip. “I’m right here, it’s okay. You can tell me.”

If only it were that simple. Their bond was so strong that he needed to remind himself of their history sometimes. For several years, they went on as if neither one existed. It made him queasy to consider what might have happened if they didn’t reconnect. 

“You could have died out there. I was so fucking stubborn, and you could’ve died.”

“ _I didn’t_. Safe as houses—see?” He murmured, guiding Mickey’s hands to his face. “Came back in one piece.”

Mickey staggered into the kitchen to grab another hit of caffeine, desperate to stop himself from ending up in a puddle of tears. “Come get your meds.”

Ian followed him, staring at the bottles with a grimace. “You don’t have to do this. I know it’s a lot to handle.”

“Gotta stop talking like I’ve got a knife to my throat, man.”

“You haven’t seen the worst of it. Monica is a gong show—everything falls to shit when she comes around.”

“You’re not your mom, Ian. This doesn’t change who you are. We just have to switch up how we handle things—for example, you need to get a fuckin’ therapist pronto.”

“It changes who I am. You haven’t met her, Mick. It’s a nightmare.”

Popping open the containers, he shook the proper dose into his hands. “Take your pills, bitch—I need to wake up Yev, he’s got daycare.”

Mickey rushed through the apartment, while Ian scurried after him, trying to catch up on his routine. “Is that where he goes while you’re at work?”

“Well I took the day off today, but yeah. Just started. It’s good for him to socialize and shit. Needed to let Iggy off the hook.”

“Who looks after him at night? Debbie?”

“Sometimes. Iggy does most of it, though. He never complains, but I feel like shit about it,” Mickey said, slamming his eyes shut. “Fuck! I forgot to pick up groceries last night.”

“I can help. What does he like to take for lunch?”

“Uh—toss whatever we’ve got in his bag, I’ll stop somewhere later. His backpack is on the couch.”

An unexpected boom of Ian’s unbridled laughter drifted from the living room. His hysterics eradicated any trouble Mickey had in waking up his son. Yevgeny gave an owlish blink, scrambling out of bed to check out the source of the noise. Mickey followed close behind, letting out a deep breath at the sight of Ian holding up a backpack with a grin on his face.

“ _This_ is yours?”

Yevgeny nodded, giggling between his fingers when Ian put his arms through the loops.

“Mick—this is big enough to take on a hike. I’m surprised he doesn’t tip over when he walks.”

“Fuck off,” Mickey smirked. “I don’t fill the damn thing up to the top.”

“Was this Uncle Iggy’s?” Ian asked with a playful wink.

Yevgeny nodded again, bouncing on the balls of his feet when Ian broke into another fit of giggles.

Mickey scowled at the redhead. “Alright, shows over. Go get dressed, little man. Don’t forget to brush your teeth.”

“What’s that look for?” Ian tittered.

“ _You_ and your fuckin’ dad shaming.”

“ _Dad shaming_? The backpacks we stuffed our parachutes into in Afghanistan were smaller than this. We had to jump out of a plane, just saying.”

Mickey threw a middle finger over his shoulder, disappearing into the bedroom. He returned with a fresh shirt, tossing it at Ian’s head. “Put it on, asswipe.”

“Are you _body shaming_ me, sir?”

“You wanna show up at Yev’s daycare lookin’ like a Chippendales dancer? Get dressed, dumbass.”

Ian beamed, sticking his tongue out. “You shouldn’t name call so much, _Mikhailo_. Not nice.”

\----------

He liked to tease Mickey, but he was not a negligent dad by any means. A little clueless maybe, but what parent wasn’t? The apartment was nothing like his memory of the Milkovich house. Instead of automotive parts and lawn chairs, their home had purposeful furniture. In lieu of Terry’s garbage overflowing in rotten cardboard boxes, there were toys and throw blankets for what he assumed to be enjoyable movie nights on the couch. It was the home Mickey deserved when he was a boy.

Ian didn’t want to come across as overzealous, but an invitation to daycare drop off was noteworthy. Mickey shared things about Yevgeny here and there in his text messages, but he wasn’t one to tip his hand. The subject was private, so he didn’t want to prod, given the circumstances with Svetlana.

The journey to the daycare center was a lengthy trek for little legs. It wasn’t long before Yevgeny asked his dad to pick him up. Mickey lifted him up over his head and onto his shoulders, the two of them chatting away about all the new summer blooms bordering the sidewalks and treelines. It brought some warmth to the depression budding in the cracks of his mind.

They made it to the front entrance when Ian jerked to a stop.

Yevgeny took off like a rocket toward a woman with kind eyes, and a vibrant smile, waving at them.

“You comin’ Gallagher?”

Ian hugged himself, jutting his chin toward the building. “I’ll wait here—you go.”

“Why? They’ll wanna meet you.”

“I’m not—I don’t think I should. I look almost as bad as I feel.”

Mickey huffed a breath through his nose, kicking the toe of Ian’s boot with his own. “Don’t know what you’re talking about, man. You look good to me.”

“I’m not myself, I don’t wanna freak anyone out.”

“Alright, tough guy. Lemme have a closer look,” Mickey murmured, taking Ian’s face in his hand, and tilting it in different angles. “Well, you’ve still got your freckles, _thank fuck_. We got some decent cheek bones, your jawline—well, it’s _definitely_ an Ian Gallagher jawline. Your hair—still ginger as fuck. Have lost no height so far, I still feel like a Smurf standing next to you—”

“Why are you being so nice to me?”

“Because you’re beautiful, you shithead. Quit telling yourself you’re not good enough. I love you, and Yev will love you one day too. Unless you act like a punk and don’t come inside to see his weird macaroni art.”

“What if they ask about us?”

Mickey stiffened, worrying his bottom lip. “Then I guess I better tell them my kid has two dads, before they think I’m some creep who has regular sleepovers with his friends.”

A lively man with shoulder length hair and a bright Hawaiian shirt cleared his throat. “Sorry to interrupt Mr. Milkovich, but I was just wondering if you had time to hang around this morning. We’re pulling out our hand casting kits today.”

“Uh—yeah I can chill for a bit. This is Ian,” Mickey said, reaching between them to lace their fingers together. Ian pressed a hand on his stomach, calming the fizz of warmth the gesture unleashed.

“Hi Ian, I’m Joseph—but everyone calls me Joey. You’re welcome to join us too if you’d like!”

“That’d be great.”

They sauntered through the doors, Ian wincing at the sudden tight grip Mickey had on his hand. He glanced down at the source of the pain before realizing what must have been going through his head. Willingness to be open about their relationship in another state wasn’t the same as coming out on the Southside. Even if he did it with subtlety, there was no going back.

“You okay?” Ian asked under his breath. “Want me to hang back?”

“And leave me alone with that _absolute hunk_? No way.”

Jealous Ian was growing on him.

“His shirt is brighter than Carl’s future,” Ian scoffed.

“Play nice in the sandbox, Army,” Mickey cackled, drawing attention from everyone in the room.

\----------

It helped that Yevgeny was new to the program. Nobody had time to paint a picture of their family dynamic. It didn’t slow his pounding heart, and he considered bolting out the back door when a few of the kids giggled, but it was one small way to free himself from the residual panic he lived with in their neighborhood.

Hand casting was messy, and Yevgeny didn’t want any part of it. He had some unique aversions that Mickey was noticing, including any tactile experience he needed to wash off. He shrugged his little shoulders, scampering away to build a wooden racetrack, flapping his hands each time the car hit a jump. The teachers watched him with a meticulous eye, mumbling to each other.

“So, what do you have planned for the day, Dad?” Joey asked, nudging Mickey.

“Regular shit—uh stuff. _This guy_ says I need to get Yev a new backpack.”

Joey chuckled. “I don’t know, it’s an excellent bag if say—he wanted to backpack across Europe.”

Ian almost lost it, keeling over before giving the other man a high five. “Good one.”

“Hilarious,” Mickey deadpanned. “We better take off. What time is pick up today?”

“Six, but you can call ahead and let us know if you need more time. Some parents struggle to meet that deadline, we don’t mind sticking around.”

“That’ll be fine. I’ll be here.”

Mickey kneeled to give Yevgeny a hug, hit with a pang of anxiety. He wasn’t used to leaving him with strangers. Anyone outside of their family would have a troublesome time crawling out of that category. “You be good, okay?”

Yevgeny hummed, his eyes fixated on the toy car in his hands.

\----------

“You ready to go shopping, Milkovich?”

Mickey responded through a huff of cigarette smoke. “We gotta stop at your sister’s place first. She’s been blowing up my phone all morning.”

“What? She hasn’t sent me anything.”

Mickey passed the redhead his cigarette, clacking his thumbs against the screen of his phone. “It’s way more fun to harass me.”

“I’ll call her—tell her I’m fine.”

“Nuh-uh, big guy. If she doesn’t see you in person, her head will explode.”

Ian braced his hand against a tree to catch his breath. “You’ve called me like fifty different nicknames today. It’s bullshit that I don’t have one for you.”

The sun shimmered across Ian’s body, accenting his freckles, and lightening the purple under his eyes. Blistering heat peppered his fair skin with sweat, the sheen highlighting the curves of his biceps. If Mickey didn’t know firsthand he was struggling, he’d think the man was a picture of health.

“Any profanities I call you don’t count, those apply to more than just you.”

“What if I were to call you _little guy_?”

“Then I’d have to deck you in the mouth to prove I’m alpha, and we’re trying not to do the hitting thing, remember?”

Ian’s brow quirked behind a cloud of grey smoke. “You’re not quick enough,” he stated, stepping out of Mickey’s swinging range, “or tall enough to reach my mouth.”

“Oh yeah? Whatcha backing away for then?”

Ian reached for his phone. “ _Speak of the devil_ —hey Fiona.”

His expression darkened, frowning as he listened to his sister speak. Mickey took a nervous pull from their cigarette, holding back the urge to ask what was going on. The redhead paced alongside the road, nodding periodically. It made him dizzy. He expected Ian to hang up the phone and fill him in, but what happened next was much worse.

“She needs to talk to you, Mick.”

“What for? Tell her we’ll be right over,“ he grumbled. Call it self-preservation, but he was not about to receive more bad news over the phone.

“O-okay,” Ian said, placing the device back to his ear. “Fi? Yeah, we’re heading over right now. Uh—two minutes. We’re right down the road.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to those of you who are still reading. I hope this journey has been enjoyable for you. Still plenty of adventure to come. Take care!


	21. Svetlana

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey cuts the painful strings that have clutched him for too long, The Gallagher's love Mickey almost as much as Ian does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings still apply, but especially here.

Svetlana wasn’t fond of Ian, that much Mickey understood. She didn’t have any concrete reasons for it, as they hadn’t been in any altercations. The incident Terry instigated was the most direct exposure they had to each other. She carried hostility toward the redhead the further she grasped what he meant to Mickey, but he didn’t have to speak about it out loud. Her instincts were strong, always seeming to find the right spot to sink her teeth into when he was hurting most. He wasn’t the slightest bit shocked to discover she had returned to the Southside, searching for him and Yevgeny, after he’d recovered his happiness again.

Fiona chewed on her pen cap, fingers drumming on the dining room table while Mickey registered the situation. She had just finished explaining in vulgar detail, Svetlana’s visit to DCFS, the woman frantic that she could not track the boys down. Fiona being the last one on the case meant that her colleagues remained tight-lipped about their whereabouts, something the errant Russian did not appreciate. She uttered threats, lumbered around with her finger waggling in every direction, demanding information until they escorted her off the premises. Mickey got used to ignoring her typical haughty attitude. She was short tempered, filled to the brim with entitlement, and determined to keep Mickey right where she wanted him until it didn’t suit her. He would shrug it off when it still made sense to overlook it. That wasn’t the case anymore.

“Did you hear me?” Fiona griped. “She’s on a war path. Kev said she tore through the Alibi, givin’ everyone the shake down.”

Mickey tore open a fresh pack of smokes, sliding one out of the box with his teeth. “Let the bitch spin her wheels. I don’t give a fuck.”

“She will not let up.”

“Don’t matter to me. I ain’t her fuckin’ keeper. She’ll find some other poor shmuck to sabotage on her strut around the ghetto. Bitch is probably hoping for a handout.”

Ian tried to lend some consolation, patting the space between his shoulder blades. “Maybe we should meet up with her before she does something reckless, Mick.”

“Like what?”

“Take Yevgeny,” Fiona said with a grimace. “It arises more often than it should.”

The notion made his stomach sick, drenched in a surge of panic. “She can’t do that though, right—legally?”

Fiona hung her head, her lips set in a tight line. “Since you don’t have any arrangement in court, it can be a mess to deal with if she gets him in her custody. The wheels of the system grind slow. We need to prevent her from kidnapping him in the interim.”

Ian grabbed Mickey’s hand in a frenzy. “What about daycare?”

Mickey fumbled for his phone, dialing through to an automated mailbox. “ _Fuck_. Ian, can you please keep calling them? I gotta track down Iggy.”

“Wait, you’re not leaving, are you?”

“Don’t got a choice, man. Stay here—keep dialing. If they answer, tell them there’s a crazy whore on the loose, and to keep her the fuck away from my kid.”

“Who have you told about the daycare program?” Fiona asked.

“Other than you guys—Iggy and Linda,” Mickey muttered, striding toward the door. “I don’t think they’d say anything, but I gotta nip that shit in the bud just in case.”

With that, Mickey was off.

\----------

Ian paced the kitchen, mind racing. “What if she takes him, Fi?”

Fiona reached for him, pausing his frenetic movements. “Then we come together for Mickey and help him fight it.”

“She’s fucked in the head—won’t go the legal route. I wouldn’t put it past her to disappear with him.”

Fiona massaged her temples as she pondered. “I’ll call Lip, get him down here.”

“What for?”

“Strength in numbers. We can get ahead of this with more feet on the ground.”

Ian battled impending brain fog, tired enough to stretch out on the couch and nap the day away. Their state of affairs only intensified that. He fought against the urge to lay his head down, pounding redial and listening to it ring through to voicemail.

“We can’t let her take him,” Ian blurted, scrubbing his hands across his face.

“Try to take a deep breath, okay? We’ll do everything we can. I know she’s an asshole for leaving, and I’m sure you don’t want to hear this, but Mickey married her for a reason at one point, right?”

“Lip didn’t tell you, did he?” Ian asked, springing up off the couch, arms akimbo.

She squinted, pressing her fingers to the bridge of her nose. “He told me you two had a thing going, but Mickey was in the closet. I figured him gettin’ married was upsetting for you. I thought that might’ve had something to do with why you left but we didn’t talk about it.”

“Terry hired Svetlana to fuck the gay out of him.”

“What?”

“He caught us together. Tried to beat the shit out of us, pistol whipped Mickey then stood there and watched while she rode him. Made me stay until the whole thing ended.”

Something flashed in her eyes before she took the stairs two at a time, snatching the baseball bat from the wall. “Ian—I’m only going to ask you this once, and I need you to be candid with me. Is that true? Is that what happened?”

“Yes! Why would I make that up? It was fucking devastating.”

Years spent maintaining a government job could not abolish her roots. “We put the squirrel fund under Debbie’s bed, in the polka dot bag. You’re gonna need it later.”

“Why?”

“To bail my ass outta jail.”

Ian laughed humorlessly. “You’re not serious.”

“I’ve never been more serious about anything in my life. That bitch is going to be unrecognizable when I’m done with her.”

“Fiona—that shit is on Terry too. He set the whole thing up.”

“And if Terry were here, I’d grab my damn Glock and put a bullet through his fat skull. Svetlana knew what she was doing. Y’all are the casualties here, not her.” She whipped the door open, slamming it against the wall. “Stay put.”

Ian followed her in awe as she stomped down the front steps, swinging the bat like a comic book villain, a ball of pent up aggression and Southside swagger. He glanced around the house, knowing full well that the silence would be far too deafening to sit with. He slipped his boots back on, chasing after his indignant sibling.

\----------

Iggy wasn’t answering his phone, and it made Mickey’s mouth go dry. The device was like an extra limb. It never left his side. He wasn’t sure why it made him uneasy, but it did. Against his better judgment, he stopped in at the Milkovich dwelling before going to pick up Yevgeny. Sweat dripped down his back, not a cloud in the sky to disrupt the sizzling sun, as he stumbled over the clutter on the ramshackle porch.

The door was open.

“Iggy?” he called out, tripping over a ransacked tote. “Jesus, didn’t think this place could get any worse—”

“Hello, husband.”

His stomach curdled. Svetlana was sitting on the dining room table, matchstick legs resting on a chair, surrounded by torn open envelopes, a stack of paper in her hands.

“The fuck did you do to your hair?”

Curling her finger through tousled black, she grinned. “You don’t like it? Makes me look like Milkovich, no?”

“Makes you look fuckin’ nuts, is what it makes you. Get out of my house.”

“Your house?” she scoffed, hopping down from the table. “I don’t think so. No bed in your room, no clothing. You moved out of father’s dungeon and took my Yevgeny. I come to take him back.”

Mickey clenched his jaw. Crimson red tunnel vision bled into his sight. “Go back to the rock you climbed out from, you fucking sea urchin. Yev deserves better than this.”

Her eyes turned as dark as her hair, a hateful smile pulling at her lips. “I have a present for you. Carrotboy sends you love notes.”

“How did you get those?”

“Dumb shit sends them to you for ages. I check mail when nobody is home. He pines for you.”

“You kept them from me?”

Svetlana shrugged, stalking into the kitchen to snag a lighter from the junk drawer. “He comes between family, then we have complication. I am responsible to fix your gay ass, yes? Didn’t want husband to have pen pal, so I throw them away, Terry too. I find these tucked away in Mandy’s boxes as she packs to leave.”

“Jokes on you, bitch. I already knew about ‘em.”

Her brows jumped to her hairline. “How?”

“You’re not controlling my life anymore. You need to go.”

“Not without my Yevgeny,” she said, her sing song voice grating his last nerves. “Faggot father will not raise him.”

The distance between them closed in an instant as he hurled her against the fridge. “I should have smothered you in your sleep.”

“Like father, like son,” she sputtered through a cough. “ _Ask your whore mother_.”

Her audacious demeanor faded, fear creeping into her face. Remorse hit him like a freight train, releasing his hand before stumbling backward, pressing his palms over his mouth. He was a lot of things, but Terry Milkovich wasn’t one of them. He would walk through fire for the rest of his life to avoid an outcome so futile.

“Get out,” he spat. “Don’t make me ask you again.”

“You tell me where is Yevgeny, and I leave.”

“You’re not taking my son, Svetlana!” Mickey bellowed, hard footsteps distracting them both.

Fiona’s chest heaved as she straightened herself out, marching across the dwelling with a baseball bat extended in front of her like a machete. She pressed the weapon against Svetlana’s throat, forcing her chin to tip upward. Mickey clutched his chest, his galloping heartbeat vibrating his fingers.

“You made a mistake comin’ back here,” Fiona said, seething at the other woman. “Big fuckin’ mistake.”

Iggy stumbled through the back door with paper bags full of groceries balancing in his arms. He almost jumped out of his skin at the house invasion, tossing the bags on the counter. “ _What the fuck_?”

“Yeah,” Mickey mumbled, kneading the back of his neck.

“What’s going on? _Svetlana_?”

“I come to take Yevgeny, but these stupid fucks do not tell me where he is.”

“No shit, eh?” Iggy huffed, lip curling around his cigarette. “Well, guess that means it’s time for you to make like a tree and fuck off.”

“You cannot keep him from me, I am mother!”

Ian sailed through the door like the clumsy redhead he was, his older brother trailing behind. They stood in the front entrance, blinking at the scene of the crime.

“ _Jesus_ Fiona,“ Lip said, jogging across the floor to diffuse the angry missile, “Put it down, okay?”

His request only encouraged her to drive the weapon harder.

“Fi, you’re gonna collapse her windpipe. Let’s cool off for a minute, talk this out.” Ian suggested, his tone too sedate for a Gallagher in the middle of a possible felony.

Svetlana squirmed, her wrists shaking at the strain of keeping the bat from crushing her trachea. A gentle wind blew through the back door, bringing with it notes of freshly cut grass, a lawn mower whirring in the distance. Once again the house was full of ghosts, too intense for the outside world to permeate. Iggy kicked the door shut, twisting the lock. Ian inched his way to Mickey, calloused fingers enveloping his smaller hand, allowing him to take a full breath. Mickey couldn’t help but lean into the contact, a comfort he had never experienced with Svetlana in the same room. 

“We’re good,” Lip said, squeezing her rigid shoulders. “You don’t want to do this. Let her go, and we can talk like adults.”

“She hurt them,” Fiona said through a strangled sob. “How could you do it, _huh_? How? Mickey was just a fucking kid, _and my brother_ —you’re lucky I don’t bury you in my backyard for what you did to this family.”

Mickey looked to Iggy, a glossiness in his expression that he’d never seen before. He couldn’t remember a time where his older brother cried, not even when he downed half a bottle of spicy sauce in a dare one night while they were getting wrecked on hooch. It subverted his hardened identity, but it spoke volumes. What happened to them affected everyone, and even when he struggled to notice it, there was an abundance of love at the core.

Fiona dropped the bat, rotating her shoulders before spitting in the woman’s face.

Svetlana used the back of her hand to wipe it off, slouching beside the fridge. “I was young too—Terry would have hurt me, I did not know what would happen.”

“Get her out of here, Iggy. _Please_.” Fiona muttered. “You come around here again and my brothers won’t be here to help you.”

“I just want to see my Yevgeny.”

“Too late for that, isn’t it? You don’t get to come and go when it suits you. You’ve done enough damage, you manipulative bitch.”

Svetlana nodded, her lip trembling at what they could only assume was a mixture of anger and sadness. Iggy grabbed her arm, leading her toward the front door with force. She stumbled to a halt as they passed Ian and Mickey, dejection etched in the creases of her forehead.

“I don’t care what you say happened to me. You will tell Yevgeny I love him, yes?”

Mickey gave a slow nod, gazing at the wall behind her. Ian was his pillar of strength, squeezing his hand to let him know he was not alone.

“Can you give her a ride out of the city?” Mickey asked, eyes flitting to Iggy. “Make sure she doesn’t come back.”

\----------

Mickey distracted himself with the bags of toppled groceries, taking his time putting each item away. It wasn’t conventional for them, food had always been tossed into the fridge as a haphazard afterthought, but the Gallagher’s lingering behind him made him anxious.

He never expected them to come through like that, not on his behalf. It made sense for Fiona to lose her cool about Ian’s involvement with Svetlana, but she was livid about him and Yevgeny too. He wasn’t sure how to comprehend it all. His life had been a stream of unfortunate circumstances, strung together with traumatic events. It was unusual for anyone to bat an eye to his pain.

They saw him as more than a hoodlum. How do you thank someone for that?

“Wow— _celery_?” Ian chuckled, handing the stalks to his boyfriend. “Is Iggy on a health kick?”

“Must be,” Fiona grinned. “I tried to share my smoothie with him once, he gagged at the smell before the straw made it to his lips.”

“You think that’s bad?” Lip interjected, huffing out a laugh. “Debbie asked him to pick up cauliflower one time—he brought over a bag of broccoli.”

Mickey threw his hands up. “What the fuck are we doing right now?”

The siblings blinked at him, Ian giving him a hardy pat on the back. “Shop talk.”

“We’re fuckin’ chefs now?” Mickey asked, reaching for a case of beer. “Is that what you fuckers do? Just attack people with sports equipment and pretend nothing happened?”

“Svetlana isn’t _people_ ,” Lip said, grabbing Mickey’s beer as soon as he opened it. “She got off easy. I thought Fiona was going to make a home run before her severed head hit the ground.”

“ _Gross_. Boys are vile.”

“Boys are vile—you almost murdered my baby mama with a piece of wood,” Mickey snorted.

“Don’t make it a thing,” Fiona teased, ruffling his hair. “You guys gonna be okay? I have to do some damage control at the office.”

“Guess so. I gotta work tonight, can you guys look after Ian?”

“I’m standing right here,” the redhead groaned.

“Drop him by the house later with Yevgeny.”

When everyone cleared out, Ian shoved Mickey with his shoulder whinging about how he was a grown man who didn’t need a babysitter. Pouting Ian was almost as enticing as jealous Ian, his hand gestures as animated as his expressions. He had done well, all things considered. Their transition home had been nothing short of stressful, and it seemed he was coping better than anything Mickey read online. He didn’t want to make any hasty decisions. It was crucial to make sure the redhead was stable before taking a step back from his protective ways.

“Just let us take care of you, grumpy face. I’ll come get you in the morning, we can grab breakfast.”

“Why in the morning?”

“I don’t get off shift until late, you’ll be asleep by then, man.”

“So what, you’ll just go home after work and sleep in an empty apartment?” Ian asked, clearing off a space on the couch to drop in. “Sure hope nobody burgles you.”

“ _Burgles_?” Mickey smirked.

“You can never be too careful around here. Might help to have a trained killer around.”

He straddled the redhead, smoothing his copper eyebrows with the pad of his thumbs, and tracing the contours of his jawline. Beneath the years was the same naïve and beautiful boy he fell for when he was young. “You guys are all corrupt. Did you know Mandy was storing your letters too?”

“I’m surprised she didn’t give them to you. She’s a hopeless romantic.”

Mickey jumped over the back of the couch, grabbing a handful from the table. “Wanna read ‘em together, then fuck me senseless?”

Ian’s pupils dilated with his lopsided grin. “What if I fuck you _while_ you read them?”

“You’re a dirty dog, Gallagher.”

\----------

Mickey elbowed his way through the swarm of cavorting drunks, strobe lights swaying with catchy, bass heavy music. The DJ did an impressive job blending together each track, throwing in the odd classic rock tune he recognized. He wasn’t a dancer, but after a few drinks it might incline him to shake off some of his nervous energy. Marcus was busy pouring a row of colourful shots at the bar, chatting up the customers who he deemed to have the most generous pockets.

“Bluebird!”

“You gotta cut that shit out, man. Bluebird makes me sound—”

“Gay?” Marcus chimed, waggling his brows. “It’s those baby blues, kid. You’re a stunner.”

Mickey would shut down a come on like that if it were genuine. Marcus was becoming a fast friend, and one he felt more than comfortable joking around with. “Tell that to Ian and you might lose an appendage. He almost hunted you down the other night.”

Marcus stirred a cocktail, sliding it across the counter. “Shit, didn’t like the dick pic?”

“ _Fuck off_. Nah, he read your text. Thought I was fuckin’ around,” Mickey said as he cut a coin of orange peel with his pairing knife. “Trust me, you don’t wanna cross his ginger ass.”

“What made him think you were messing around?”

“I dunno, could be the corny ass nickname or the reference to a _fan club_ in fuckin’ Boys Town.”

The bartender belted out a laugh, shaking a cocktail with flawless technique, every muscle in his torso flexing under his fitted shirt. “You didn’t tell him you work here?”

“He found out pretty fuckin’ fast after that.”

“You’re welcome, then. Secrets are poison, my dude.”

Mickey whipped up a simple syrup, filling a clean bottle with the concoction. “Yeah, I’m learning that.”

“Is Ian your friend from Missouri?” Marcus asked, splitting a wad of bills, stuffing Mickey’s pocket with cash.

“That’s the one. Boyfriend, though. He’s going through it right now. I’m stressed out being away from him.”

Marcus gave the counter a wipe down while the bar was quiescent. “Family troubles?”

“Health stuff, crap with the army. It sucks because I can’t relate to it, y’know? We’ve always kinda gotten each other with difficult shit. Feel bad that I can’t make it better.”

“I know all about the military life. I was an army brat growing up. My brother served ten years, just got out last summer.”

“What’s the story there?”

Marcus leaned against the bar with his arms crossed as he recounted his childhood. His family moved base to base, all over the globe. His father became wounded on his last deployment and succumbed to his injuries, something that deterred Marcus from joining when he graduated high school, the same not applying to his twin brother who left for basic almost as soon as he accepted his diploma. It was hard on his mother, who at the time was struggling with early onset Alzheimer’s, so Marcus put his aspirations on pause to care for her. He had a full ride scholarship, and a partner he thought he’d spend the rest of his life with. His devotion to his family took over any semblance of personal life, something he hadn’t regretted at the moment, but more so as the years passed by.

They diagnosed his brother with a health condition that took him out of the running after a decade of loyal service, a departure that shook him enough to land him in some scalding water in his civilian life. He got into an accident, surviving it because of quick acting paramedics. One thing led to another, and when he was back on his feet, he pursued training as an EMT, setting a new goal for himself.

“It wasn’t looking good for a while there, but being in that field gives him purpose,” Marcus explained before turning to a fresh group of customers who were nattering away about the attractive bartenders.

“That’s intense, man. How’s your mom doing?”

“She died a few months back. I threw myself into work after the fact, just starting to come up for air now. My life revolved around caring for her for a long time.”

Mickey wasn’t used to spilling over with empathy outside of his relationship with Ian, but Marcus pulled it out of him with ease. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Thanks, Southside. It is what it is. We all got our problems. What’s Ian’s story with the army?”

Mickey gave him the abridged version, in part because he didn’t like divulging Ian’s private life. He spoke about his diagnosis but kept it short. “Now we’re just trying to navigate what it all means, y’know? It sounds petty, but I don’t want him to go back. He has some medical evaluation thing going on.”

“Ah, medboard,” Marcus nodded. “No way they’ll take him after his diagnosis. It’s ruthless, but I think your man will be better off. Plus the G.I. cheques are nothing to complain about.”

“I’m worried about how he’ll take it when the dust settles. Can’t imagine what that’ll be like. It’s been a part of him for so long. I wanna give him everything. Scares the shit out of me that what he wants might be something I can’t do.”

Marcus handed him a bottle of rum, gesturing to a group of giggling girls wearing bachelorette sashes. “Sounds to me like you’ve been a part of him longer. Love wins, man—you guys got this. Now go serve those bitches before they take samples of your hair for their voodoo doll collection.”

Mickey rolled his eyes before slapping on his best party manners. It was general knowledge that the employees were predominantly gay, but it didn’t stop the league of flirtatious women from giving him their best cleavage and hair flips.

“Here—you deserve a big tip. You’ve got the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen. What time do you get off?”

Mickey leaned across the bar, whispering so low it was almost a growl. “Whenever my boyfriend sticks his dick in my ass.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so we had some more intensity in this chapter. I pinky promise it can only go up from here.


End file.
